“The only reason the Candy Shop exists is because they do the stuff the rest of us don’t really want to touch, you know? Our guys are out to make money, and the Feds are in it for the law, but the Candy Shop? They’re in it for the justice. God knows why—there can’t be that much money in it. Maybe it’s job satisfaction, you know?”

 
--Anthony Migliore, Capo, Lucchese Family

 

“Oh THANK you!“ Miss Chocolate called out firmly, smiling at Catherine Willows. “I really needed something to drink—“ Carefully she reached out for the cup proffered to her. Behind Ms. Willows’ back, Grissom carefully, swiftly rolled off his gloves and shoved them deep in his pockets. Miss Chocolate made a big production out of drinking, managing to choke a bit as well; Ms. Willows leaned over, reaching for Kleenex on the nightstand and handing it to her.

 

“Ohh! Careful now, it’s just a little water—“

 

“Wrong . . . pipe,” came Miss Chocolate’s coughing response. Grissom moved to rub her spine soothingly. He shot their hostess an apologetic look over the top of his glasses.

 

“Perhaps it would probably be better if Felicity and I just . . . called it an evening,” he suggested in a soft voice. “We don’t want to put anybody out, and I’m sure the Senator has more than enough company tonight.”

 

“If you’re sure—“ Ms. Willows replied, trying not to let her relief show.  Miss Chocolate turned, and in a sweetly natural move, gently curled into his arm, her face pressed shyly against the side of his neck. Grissom felt his eyelids flutter as he fought against an answering surge of attraction. Ms. Willows chuckled softly.

 

“I’m glad you could make it though—may I call you a cab, or have our driver take you home?”

 

“We drove, but thank you,” Grissom managed, his voice only hinting at huskiness. The feel of Miss Chocolate molded to him, fitting against his chest like a long lost piece . . . she pulled away from him and sighed.

 

“I hate to make any trouble—“ Miss Chocolate admitted, but Ms. Willows reached out to gently stroke her shoulder.

 

“You’re not—it’s all part of motherhood, so don’t even worry about it.”

 

***   ***   ***

 

It had just started to rain; Sara watched with satisfaction as the carton went into the UPS truck with several others. She flipped open her cell phone and dialed as she stepped out of the store, glad Mr. Peppermint picked up on the first ring.

 

“It’s shipped.”

 

“Good. Insured?”

 

“Yep. I’m catching the eleven-forty flight out today. Rendezvous at the Shop?”

 

“I have the three-thirty-seven out this afternoon. We’ll meet up tomorrow at the Shop and debrief with Miss L. Got your receipts?” came his cool, businesslike tone. Sara fought a hint of irritation, and responded in as neutral a voice as she could manage.

 

“Down to the parking validation. See you then.”

 

“Yes . . . “ She heard him pause, and a little flare of hope went up in her chest. He added, “I have your book. I’ll bring it.”

 

Sara blinked, and as she hung up wondered why she felt both happy and sad.

 

The flight into Vegas was boring; she’d given up on reading, and there were only so many distractions around her on the flight. Sara still hadn’t turned her cell back on for anything more than the quick call to Mr. Peppermint, and even now knew there were messages on it from Hank that she was going to have to deal with very soon.

 

To stop herself from brooding about it, Sara turned her thoughts back to the enigmatic Mr. Peppermint. The night before, they’d driven back from the party in silence, and he’d retreated to his room to pack up the Bell and Howell with scarcely a ‘good night’ to her. Sara suspected she was reading too much into it, but it hurt to think that the rapport between them was off, and more so because she wasn’t sure if she’d done something to offend him.

 

Maybe he was the sort that went flat at the denouement, Sara mused. Some agents were like that—once the thrill of the case was over, the paperwork and debriefing were of no interest to them. And yet—his attention to detail was as meticulous as ever. He’d collected the wedding rings and turned in their IDs already, and had begun the preliminary report for Miss Lollipop.

 

Sara sighed. It had been fun, working with Mr. Peppermint; fun in a way that was different from tackling a mission with Jelly Bean. It felt more like a partnership, from the minute they’d walked into Bruce Eiger’s mansion right up until this morning. She stirred restlessly, wishing that the flight was over and this melancholy mood would lift, but aware that both would take time.

 

* * *

 

The first person Sara saw when she stepped off the elevator was Mr. Cinnamon, who smiled at her in gentle greeting. He had an armful of casing boxes, and she offered to take one but he shook his blonde, curly head. “Thanks but I’ve got it—hey, you still sold on that twenty-two I issued you?”

 

“It’s still good for me. Why? Got something else in up your sleeve?” she asked curiously. He flashed a smile at her, eyes twinkling as he shifted the boxes once more.

 

“Always, Miss Chocolate. Come on down to ma’ armory when you have a moment; I’ve got a little piece I thank would suit you better.”

 

“Well if you’re offering--“ she replied, smirking. Cinnamon laughed and headed down the hall towards the frosted glass doors of the firing range. Sara walked in the opposite direction, to the offices.

 

Here she saw Gum Drop through the clear glass of his lab, working with some smoking chemical; he gave her a nod while keeping his attention of the billowing clouds between his gloved hands. Further on, Sara saw Toffee, looking long and elegant working with JuJube over a brass and crystal clock face.

 

And in the farthest glass walled room, Jelly Bean was subtly stalking a woman.

 

Sara grinned, and stopped to watch him in action, her arms crossing as she took in the sight of the self-proclaimed Sultan of Swipe moving in casual grace around his target, sipping his coffee, working his charm and smiling at her. She sat on a stool, reading a copy of Carnivorous Plants of South America, seemingly unimpressed by the Bean’s smooth play. Sara stepped closer to the glass, and hear him faintly talking through it.

 

“ . . . And of course the only person they could come to was me, because hey, I’ve saved just about everyone’s keister around here—Whoa, sorry, sorry, let me get you some napkins—“ came his chagrined voice. If Sara hadn’t been watching carefully she would have missed how deftly Jelly Bean slipped an arm around his victim and at the same time palmed off her security badge, watch and one earring as he helped her wipe off the coffee he had spilled on her.

 

“Thanks. Now give them back,” she ordered him, her expression slightly jaded, despite the smirk on the corner of her pretty mouth. The Bean looked hurt, and shot Sara a beseeching look through the glass. It didn’t help; both she and the victim continued to give him knowing stares.

 

“Not fair—tag teamed by the two hottest babes in the building! I surrender already . . .” Jelly Bean grumbled good-naturedly, handing back the pilfered items. The woman finally did smile, and patted his shoulder reassuringly.

 

“If you hadn’t copped a feel at the same time you were swiping my badge I MIGHT have missed it,” she told him. Jelly Bean blushed, but managed a sheepish grin.

 

“What can I say, Miss Lemon Drop? You’re all woman, and SO tempting a target—“

 

Laughing, the woman chucked him under the chin and rose up from her stool, tucking her magazine under her arm. “Yeah, well flattery gets you a lot of forgiveness, Boy Toy. Just don’t spill your coffee too often, okay?”

 

“Gotcha—“ he murmured, pointing his finger at her departing figure for emphasis. Sara leaned in the doorway, laughing softly.

 

“Why is it that you do all your practicing on women, Greg?”

 

He gave her an incredulous stare. “That was rhetorical, right? So how did your Switcharoo go with our legendary Mr. Peppermint?”

 

“Good,” Sara admitted. “Smoother than I thought it would. Tell me; is he always so . . . meticulous?” She’d wanted to ask ‘withdrawn’ but changed it at the last second. Jelly Bean gave a nod.

 

“Oh yeah, he’s not a guy to leave things to chance, no way. The first time I worked with him he had not only a plan A, but plans B, C, D and I swear, and E as well. He told me that he never took on a case unless he’d mentally walked through each one of his plans at least twice. Me, I think it’s a little anal-retentive, but then again, my specialty is all about spontaneity and moments of opportunity, you know?”

 

“True—“ Sara agreed thoughtfully. “So—got anything going at the moment?”

 

Jelly Bean preened. “Well, not to brag, but Miss Lollipop’s got me earmarked to take a local celebrity down, big time. It’s not good when Big Names get too greedy, you know?”

 

“Big names?” Sara prodded, amused at Jelly Bean’s glee. He rubbed his hands and flashed a grin.

 

“Oh yeah—Uncle Chip of the Strip is goin’ down, thanks to the Bean and his incredible skillz.”

 

“Oh. My God. Uncle Chip?” Sara snorted, bursting into full-fledged giggles. “The Used Car King of Las Vegas? The one who does all his own commercials? The guy in that gross plaid suit?”

 

“Absolutely. The guy’s been running three dealerships for the last twenty years, and yeah everybody acts like he’s some corny institution, but he rips off people like Band-Aids. The Better Business Bureau has a file on him bigger than Ronnie—er, Marshmallow—and Miss Lollipop told me that our client is an off-the-record Fed, so it’s all to the good.”

 

“And—how are you going to do it?” Sara asked, intrigued despite herself. Jelly Bean smiled, and tapped the side of his nose, looking sly and adorable at the same time.

 

“I have my ways, Miss Chocolate, I have my ways. So when are you coming out here to stay, huh?” he demanded, his tone half in jest, half in earnest. Sara’s mouth twitched a little, and she sighed.

 

“It’s not that easy to move my digs—especially to a desert, Greg.”

 

“Hello? Lake Mead, just up the road. You can moor your baby there y’know. Lots of people do it.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” she replied noncommittally, pushing herself off of the doorframe and looking towards the debriefing room.

 

***   ***   ***

 

Miss Lollipop settled herself in the chair at the tea table and reached for the pot. It was a lovely green porcelain one, done with a bamboo motif along the lid, and she looked at both her guests, smiling gently. The three of them were around a linen-covered tea table on a pavilion in the far corner of the garden.

 

“I’ll play Mother then—“ she commented gently, and poured for Miss Chocolate, watching the steam curl up from the earthenware cup in front of the woman. Carefully Miss Lollipop poured again, this time into Mr. Peppermint’s cup, and then served herself as the soft sweet sounds of the garden around them filled the little emptiness at the table. She watched as Mr. Peppermint reluctantly added two cubes of sugar to his tea, and Miss Chocolate wrapped her narrow graceful hands around the bowl of her cup, enjoying the warmth seeping through the ceramic.

 

“So things went well back East?” she prompted gently, picking up her own cup and sipping it casually. Mr. Peppermint shot Miss Chocolate a look and nodded.

 

“Extremely. We were able to exchange the item in question without a single problem.”

 

“Excellent! Have you returned it to the owner?”

 

Miss Chocolate shook her head. “Not yet. It’s due to arrive downstairs sometime this afternoon.”

 

“And when it does?” Miss Lollipop prompted gently, watching the body language of both of them surreptitiously; it amused her that despite their silence they mirrored each other, sitting like matching bookends on either side of the tea table.

 

“When it does, then we’ll deliver it to our client,” Mr. Peppermint replied, staring down into his tea. Miss Lollipop nodded.

 

“Of course. I understand that the switchboard has fielded several calls from him, so it will be a relief to be done with his business by tonight. Was there anything else of note about Grenville?”

 

For the first time Mr. Peppermint looked concerned; he glanced from Miss Chocolate to Miss Lollipop and spoke up quietly. “Yes. Along with the item in question, I saw several photos and files in the Senator’s possession. Some of the names on the files are of concern.”

 

“Such as?” Miss Lollipop asked. Miss Chocolate shifted forward, her gaze on Mr. Peppermint’s face. He sighed.

 

“Portia Richmond. Lois O’Neill. Sy Magli. Mayor Goodman,” he replied flatly. Miss Lollipop looked thoughtfully at the plate of cookies and selected one.

 

“Only to be expected. And the photos?”

 

Here Mr. Peppermint looked uneasy. He scowled and looked down into his tea cup. “More leverage for blackmail. Several pornographic candids, a few of murder scenes including that of his former son-in-law. There wasn’t time to document the evidence beyond observation.”

 

“Good call—and whatever you can write up and file away will be useful should we need to return to Senator Braun’s brownstone. Miss Chocolate, I need you and Mr. Bubblegum to process a copy of our client’s film before you and Mr. Peppermint return his camera to him—it may contain links to some of the other names in the Senator’s safe. More tea?”

 

“I’m fine, thank you. I’ll just go . . . and get started,” Miss Chocolate murmured, rising. Politely, Mr. Peppermint did as well, his manners showing. Miss Lollipop gestured to him to stay as Miss Chocolate murmured her thanks and left the garden. Reluctantly Mr. Peppermint sat once more, and Miss Lollipop studied him carefully.

 

“I’ve made a mistake, teaming the two of you up. Clearly you’re uncomfortable with Miss Chocolate,” she began softly. Mr. Peppermint pursed his mouth, frowning.

 

“It’s not a mistake. She has a great deal of talent, and certainly enough experience and flair to be a tremendous asset to the Shop,” he pointed out slowly. Miss Lollipop said nothing, letting the silence grate a moment longer. Mr. Peppermint finally sighed, and looked around the well-tended garden, admiring it through the lattice walls of the pavilion. “Heather--she’s . . . young.”

 

“Ah,” Miss Lollipop hid her smile and cocked her head a little. “So is Jelly Bean.”

 

Mr. Peppermint shot her a dry look, and in it she saw not only his annoyance, but also his chagrin; generously she added, “She’s suited to you, Gil. You know everyone at the Shop works in teams. We’ve learned the hard way about loners.”

 

“So you’re giving me a choice—the girl or the rookie.”

 

“No, I’m giving you both,” Miss Lollipop smirked, pleased to see Mr. Peppermint twist his expression into a patient resignation. She leaned forward, her gaze turning serious for a long moment. “It’s been a long time since Los Angeles.”

 

He said nothing, but a bleak look flashed in his eyes, and for a moment the only sound was the soft chirp of a sparrow in the garden.

 

* * *

 

Grissom stared at his reflection in the rearview mirror of the Mercedes, absently adjusting his eye patch as he did so. The camera sat on the seat next to him, sealed in a plastic bag. It was after dark, and the low strains of  “Laura” were drifting out of the speakers. Carefully he started the engine and headed to the rendezvous point, trying hard not to think of anything more than finishing up the mission.

 

Pointless though. Memories drifted through his mind, brought to the surface by Miss Lollipop’s last comment. It was certainly easy for her to believe it had all been a long time ago, but Grissom knew that for some hurts, time didn’t pass nearly at the same speed within them as in the real world. Some images, some memories were still so close and sharp under the surface of the mind that they brought all the ache and loss back into sharp focus.

 

Michelle.

 

She’d lied. She’d never been his, despite all their plans and dreams, Grissom realized. She’d never planned on leaving Ted. It was much easier to lie and keep him hoping for a future that wasn’t going to happen.

 

He knew it was small; this pain of betrayal, his broken heart. In the scheme of things it really didn’t matter. Everyday people faced love and loss and managed to get on with their lives just fine. Most of the time he didn’t think about it anymore, chalking it up to another life experience he simply didn’t care to repeat, thank you.

 

And then Miss Chocolate had to slide into his arms. She HAD to fit against him, warm and sweetly scented, bringing up a thousand hungry responses in an overwhelming wave of desire and shame. Grissom sighed, and his strong fingers tightened around the steering wheel, going white as he gripped it.

 

No. Not fair. She didn’t know and she wasn’t to blame. This was all his own damned fault. The girl had no idea of what was wrong with him, and he owed her civility at the very least, especially if they were going to be working together. Grissom gave a nod, feeling a bit better. Yes. Civility.

 

He could manage that.

 

When Miss Chocolate slid into the car ten minutes later he managed a smile at her, amused that she’d opted for a completely different outfit. This time she wore a long black sleeveless dress of some stretchy knit with a gleaming silver metal belt low on her slender hips. Her wig was a marvel too—long corkscrew red-purple curls dangling over her shoulders in a mane, making her look like a Gothic Raggedy Ann. She wore the same sunglasses though, and her smile was tentative.

 

Grissom smiled back at her. “Strawberry Shortcake, all grown up.”

 

She laughed, and the mood between them lightened considerably as she set the package on her lap and fastened her belt. The song on the radio ended, and the soft opening bars of “Quiet Village” came on. Miss Chocolate sighed.

 

“Bubble Gum and I managed to scan the film and make a copy before replacing it. I didn’t get too much of a look at it, but it seems to be a picnic movie,” she began softly. Grissom gritted his teeth and she nodded, grinning. “Exactly. The only real surprise is that um, he’s not alone in his fetish this time.”

 

“Baby has a friend?” Grissom asked, slightly appalled. Miss Chocolate’s grin widened.

 

“Baby has a Mommy. And Mommy likes to spank.”

 

Grissom drew in a deep breath, trying not to let the horrific images flood his mind. Next to him, Miss Chocolate was openly muffling her giggles against her palm. He shot her a sidelong look, managing a twisted grin as the car reached the gate outside Bruce Eiger’s mansion.

 

“Oh my.”

 

“Yes indeed. I didn’t recognize the woman, but Bubble Gum did, and now?” she paused for effect, then finished—“We know exactly who Mommy Dearest is.”

 

They pulled up to the front steps and climbed out of the car, taking a moment to stand before the mansion and study it once more. Grissom kept his eyes forward and his voice low.

 

“We have guns aimed at us.”

 

“I see them. Good thing I’m holding the camera at chest level.”

 

“These people would go with head shots—no doubt, no wasted effort,” he told her softly. “Let’s stroll.”

 

They walked up to the main doors and Grissom simply yanked it open, stepping inside quickly. Miss Chocolate followed him and they watched as the monolith they’d encountered the first time came bearing down on them, albeit more cautiously. He wore a wide bandage around his throat.

 

Miss Chocolate sauntered up and slipped her arm through the bodyguard’s, smiling up at him. “Hi. We’re here to see Bruce.”

 

Grissom watched the troll of a man glare down at her, his expression caught between anger and caution; clearly word of her talents had gotten out. The bodyguard slowly gestured with his head and escorted Miss Chocolate up the stairs while Grissom trailed behind, keeping his attention divided between the room around them and the flexing sweetness of Miss Chocolate’s bottom two steps up from his gaze.

 

She looked marvelous in black, he decided.

 

The three of them made their way down the hall to the study, and this time the bodyguard opened the door, ushering them both inside. Grissom moved to Miss Chocolate’s side and smiled benignly at the man behind the desk.

 

“I believe we have something of yours to return?”

 

Eiger’s attention was riveted to the plastic bag in Miss Chocolate’s hands; he licked his lips nervously. “So you say. How can I trust it’s MY camera?”

 

“Check it yourself—we’ll wait,” Grissom told him quietly. Eiger nodded to the bodyguard, who took the bag from Miss Chocolate and handed it to his boss. Carefully Eiger lifted it free of the plastic and examined it, checking the handle and lens carefully. He sighed a moment later.

 

“Mine, all right, down to the serial number. Where did you get it?”

 

“Ah. That’s not part of the agreement. All you need to know is that the Senator probably won’t be aware of his loss for a while. He’ll figure it out eventually, so you have time to deal with it when the fallout comes,” Grissom replied carefully. Eiger’s piggy little eyes glittered, and he shot a smile across the table.

 

“Beautiful. So what would it take to get you two to come work for me?” he grunted. “Because I sure as hell could use a pair of aces up my sleeve. Name your salaries, I’m good for it and better.”

 

Then Miss Chocolate moved. In a slow stalk, she sauntered around the huge mahogany desk and leaned in close to Bruce Eiger, her long purple-red curls bouncing with every step. Grissom couldn’t make out her husky whisper, but whatever her words were, they worked. Eiger paled, then blinked rapidly, clearing his throat.

 

Miss Chocolate straightened up and flashed a smile at Grissom, full and sweet.

 

“Fine, whatever—Now get the hell out of my house,” Eiger ordered, but his voice quavered a bit and Grissom noticed he was sweating. Miss Chocolate laughed softly and returned, flicking a curl over her shoulder. She slipped her arm through Grissom’s and they turned, not looking back at their client.

 

“So what did you say?” Grissom asked as they walked down the steps together, the natural tandem of their steps making conversation easy. She laughed.

 

“Ooh I just mentioned him that two mommies are a bad idea, and that he might want to remember King Solomon’s solution.”

 

Grissom flinched and managed a small smile. “Touché.”

 

“Thanks. I’ve got no plans to baby-sit anyone in this town, least of all Bruce Eiger.”

 

They’d reached the car again without incident, and Grissom noticed the bodyguards had all disappeared. Sighing, he paused on the topmost step and checked his watch. Miss Chocolate glanced at him. “What?”

 

“I didn’t think he was this stupid, but I guess he is. While we were inside, the goons planted a bomb in the car.”

 

Miss Chocolate looked at the Mercedes, eyes widening behind her sunglasses. “Not good.”

 

“Not good. Fortunately our ride is here.” He looked up as the soft drone of a helicopter grew louder.  Grissom took Miss Chocolate’s arm and they ran to a clear spot on the lawn where the helicopter touched down. He helped her in; at the pilot’s seat, Licorice flashed them a welcoming smile.

 

“I think I DO get the bonus this time—“ he told Grissom, who nodded. The helicopter rose up, and when they were nearly thirty feet in the air, Grissom pressed the automatic remote on the car key chain. Under them, the Mercedes erupted in a spectacular fireball of twisted metal, flames and smoke.

 

Grissom shook his head sadly, and ducked back into the helicopter, pulling the door shut. He peeled off his eye patch. “Damn. I really liked that car, too.”

 

“Don’t worry—Miss Lollipop will send him a bill,” Licorice pointed out with a smile. “And we all know that jackass will pay up if he wants to ever use the Candy Shop again.”

 

***   ***   ***

 

Sara looked out over the wharf, towards the rows of tethered boats floating quietly on the water. The sun had set and a thin purple twilight colored the waters of San Francisco Bay. She let her gaze focus on the boat in slip number 514: the Boston Bohemian. There, the lights shone through the portholes, and the faint sound of laughter drifted up from it, the mingled sound of male and female voices. Sara thinned her lips. Carefully, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed.

 

It rang. The boat went quiet. Someone picked up. “Hello?”

 

“Hi Hank. I’m on my way home, babe. See you in a few minutes.”

 

“Sara—“ she snapped the cell phone off and waited, leaning against one of the pilings and pulling her sweater coat more tightly around her. Gulls wheeled along the shoreline, and from berth 514 came the sounds of bumping and thumping. Finally two people clattered up the ladder to the deck. Sara watched them argue quietly for a while, then casually called out to them.

 

“Hey.”

 

They turned, panic-stricken, and Sara noted the little blonde actually moaned. Beside her, Hank stood uncertainly, the faint breeze stirring his hair. Sara took a step forward, holding out one thin palm.

 

“I want,” she began quietly, “the wharf key. I want the two of you to go now, quietly before I call the police.”

 

“Sara, I can explain—“ Hank began, blinking rapidly. Sara shook her head.

 

“There’s nothing TO explain, Hank. Get off my boat and go away.”

 

The blonde scrambled, moving over the deck and to the wharf quickly, darting past Sara without meeting her eyes. Hank stumbled after her, calling in a low voice. “Tawnie, wait! For God’s sake hang on—“

 

Sara reached out and snagged Hank’s hand, carefully rolling the pinkie up and squeezing it mercilessly. Hank gave a yelp of pain.

 

“Key.”

 

“Jesus! In my pocket, don’t break my finger!” he whined, fishing out the tarnished wharf gate key. Sara took it and let go of his hand. Hank stared at her, his eyes wide, his look both petulant and fearful as he ran a hand through his hair. “Sara, let me just say something.”

 

“Let ME say something,” Sara interrupted brusquely. “I have a gun.”

 

Hank quivered, then quickly strode away towards the dock, glancing once behind him as Sara watched him go.

 

She felt . . . nothing. No relief, no pain, just an emptiness; like a shelf clear of clutter, or a closet with a few bare hangers. It was an odd sensation, and she turned to face the Boston Bohemian, feeling a low pang deep in her stomach. Carefully she made her way onto the boat, glad to feel the shift of it under her feet as she walked to the stern and looked out over the twinkling lights of the Bay.

 

Her cell phone rang. Sara flipped it open, prepared to hang up, but the voice caught her by surprise.

 

“Hello. I . . . wanted to make sure you got home safely,” came Mr. Peppermint’s soft, hesitant voice. Sara gripped the phone a little more tightly in her hand and leaned over the rail, feeling a rush of sensation into the void.

 

Such a little thing.

 

“I’m . . . home. Thanks,” she sighed, and smiled out over the water.

 

 

Coming next: Wheeling, Nevada