As I stood outside the home of Doctor Anton Andreiopov in thought, my mind replayed the conversation we had about the case, history, and a bizarre artifact called The Demon Blade. My thoughts, however, were interrupted by a familiar voice asking: “So, is Doctor Andrieopov – or one of his staff – a suspect?”

I spun around and just barely avoided meeting the gaze of reporter Tara O’Malley. “Are you following me?”

She laughed. “Not … not this time. My regular photographer is dating the woman who owns the coffee shop there,” she pointed out a small café across the street. “He saw you go in there and called me.”

“And you hurried over…”

“Of course. Now, were you just with a suspect?”

I sighed. “At this point in the investigation, we have no suspects. Someone in that household is currently a Person of Interest. Nothing more, nothing less.”

She gave me an odd smile. “And am I a person of interest?”

I suddenly felt warm, and gave the only answer I possibly could, “Ma’am, not in this current investigation, no you are not.”

She moved closer. I could smell her perfume – a mix of chemicals that brought a memory forward, one that took almost a full second to connect: “Honeysuckle,” I said, not realizing it was aloud.

“Wow, you have an amazing sense of smell, Mister Daniels. Or may I call you Nathan?” she asked. There was an odd trill to her voice. I found it very stimulating, and more than a little disturbing.

“Detective Daniels is fine,” I replied. My voice seemed odd to me, slurred somehow, and maybe slightly higher pitched than normal.

“So, keeping it all business, then? Can I buy you a coffee? I would love some details on how you helped crack my niece’s kidnapping…”

For almost a full second, I considered the offer - if I actually liked the taste of coffee, I probably would have. Instead, I replied: “I am supposed to contact my partner, and then meet up with her to continue our investigation.”

“Think I could come along?”

“I seriously doubt she would approve…”

“But you would like me to, wouldn’t you?”

I looked at her. The thought had crossed my mind – but the thought I stated next trumped it: “We are going to visit a potentially dangerous person of interest. You are a civilian. Whether I wished you along or not, it would be too dangerous for you to come. Also,” I added, allowing myself to smile, “I think Detective Genovelli might be even more dangerous to you than any suspect.”

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She looked like she was about to argue the point, then smiled back: “I suppose she is at that. You take care. And call me some time – either about a case, or just … to talk.”

She smiled again, then turned and crossed the street to the café she mentioned. I felt a brief urge to follow her, and another urge to just watch her walk. I tore my eyes away, took out my phone, and dialed my partner’s number. While waiting for her to answer, I glanced towards Tara and found her glancing back at me. She waved, and then went inside the shop.

“Genovelli,” I heard.

“Ah, yeah, it is Daniels. Just finished with the Professor – the other lead was a dead end – out of town all day yesterday and today, due back tomorrow.”

“We will still have to talk to him when he returns, at least to make sure his alibi holds. What about the Professor?”

“I think he knows something, but he is … cagy. Don’t think he's our guy – maybe but doesn't seem likely – but I do think he is somehow connected.”

“Just a hunch?”

“Yeah, just a hunch, nothing concrete” I confirmed. “What about yours?”

She sighed: “Have not met him yet. Wife was home, got me an appointment to see him. Should be called in any minute now. You want to grab a uniform and go over to question number four?”

“You think you'll be tied up there for a while then?”

“I… just a second. Hmm – need to talk to the blood splatter guys – if our killer could have done what he did from a wheelchair, this guy's a suspect – otherwise he's definitely out. Meet you at the donut shop a block from the target’s place – get me my usual coffee and a bear claw. Should only be twenty minutes now.”

“Gotcha.” Something told me I should mention Miss O’Malley turning up but instead I just said: “See you in twenty, then,” and broke the connection. Casting one glance at the café my reporter had vanished into, I sighed and glanced around. The streets were unusually clear for this time of day, about nine AM. I had nine blocks to travel. I took a deep breath and set out at a light jog.

As I reached the donut shop in question, I could see her car about two blocks away. I placed her order, and got myself a jelly-filled donut, then stepped outside just as she pulled up.

“You already got the order? What did you do, fly here?”

“No,” I answered, “I just jogged.”

She gave me one of her “what planet are you from, anyway?” looks, and then took the beverage from my hand and waved me to get into the car.

As I was fastening my seatbelt, she finished her first sip of coffee and said: “One of our uniformeds called me a block out – saw our suspect go into Halloran’s.”

I took a moment to recall everything I knew about this bar – I had never been there myself. James Halloran had been a cop, but before that he had belonged to a motorcycle “club” – more of a front for organized crime than anything else. He joined the force after witnessing a murder and deciding not only did he not want that life, but he also needed to make amends. When he retired, he opened a bar that serves as neutral ground for all of the motorcycle gangs in the area. Now in his late seventies, the man was still an impressive physical specimen, but one positively dwarfed by his two sons (and bar co-owners), twin brothers named Dan and Dave – all three of them qualified marksmen with “concealed carry” permits. There was rarely ever any trouble at the bar – unless an active-duty cop walked in.

Which, of course, was just what we planned to do…