Felicity and David huddle over her cell phone, talking to Detective Carmona.

"So you know who the killer is?"

"No, not yet. The DNA sample doesn't match anything in our database."

"So we're basically in the same spot as before."

"Not exactly," Hector explains. "The forensics don't replace detective work. We still have to find the suspect ourselves. But once we do, we just compare their DNA to what we found at the crime scene. And that's how we'll catch our killer."

"That makes sense," says David.

"So, yeah, we're still in the same spot," Felicity mutters, running her palms together.

David updates Hector on their progress as they file out of the Wendy's dining room. The sit on a metal bench outside the front doors.

"So, he ended up changing his name to Robert Shaffer," David continues.

"Hold on, let me get this down," Hector says, followed by the sound of shuffling papers.

"Robert Shaffer," he repeats slowly.

"Yep, he moved to San Diego and married a woman named Veronica. And get this," David says, pausing for dramatic effect, "She's a redhead!"

"Oh, a redhead! That's perfect! The wife's always the killer. I'll have to get in touch with the San Diego police and work on getting a DNA sample from her."

"No need for that," says Felicity. David turns and grins at her.

"And why is that?" Hector sighs.

"We're on our way there tomorrow. I can get you a sample myself."

"Sure, but a sample collected by a civilian isn't admissible in court. We have to do this right if we want a conviction."

"Of course, but if her DNA doesn't match, it'll just be a massive waste of time. I know how arduous it can be to coordinate with other departments, especially across state lines. I'll get you sample, and if it does match, then you can begin the procedure."

"That does make my workload lighter. You know, Felicity, I'm really starting to like you," he chuckles.

"Don't make me barf." She hangs up.

"And just how are going to get a sample from Veronica?" David crosses his arms and leans back, eying her sideways.

"It's simple. The easiest way is to pluck something out of the trash. A water bottle or a used Kleenex."

"I guess you expect me to do that, don't you?"

"Well, one of us has to," she reasons. "The other will have to distract her. I figured, since it's my plan, I'd get to choose my role." She smiles, gazing into his eyes like she knows she's getting away with something.

"Uh huh." He smirks subtly. "I guess we'll just have to wait until we get there."

Her smile vanishes. "Yeah, I guess we can play it by ear." Abruptly, she stands up from the bench, stretching. "Let's go verify Trish's alibi," she says, gesturing toward the cars. Stepping into the sunlight, she pulls her shades over her eyes and starts for her car.

"Do you know where the hospital is?" he calls after her.

"Umm... no."

"Don't you think that'll be important?"

"Why don't you just use that GPS application you love so much."

"Don't mind if I do."

An hour later, they arrive at a sprawling medical center. It takes them another half hour to find the right building. They manage to find parking space a few cars away from each other.

"Remind me to never let you drive lead again, Grandpa!" Felicity says as they enter the bustling lobby.

"Shut up!" He punches her in the arm playfully. "It's Los Angeles. You should be thankful to get over fifty on the freeway."

The lobby is a massive reverberant room, two stories high. Nurses walk gown-clad patients and along the walkways of the upper level. There's a massive skylight in the ceiling shining down on an oblong fountain. They walk around it to the reception desk. An insipid newswoman blathers on from a flat screen television mounted on the far wall.

An older woman in pale pink scrubs clicks away on her computer. They lean against the desk patiently, waiting for her to look up. She doesn't. Instead, she ignores them completely, popping fragrant strawberry gum between her teeth.

"Excuse me," Felicity starts.

Without looking, she holds up a thick index finger. Felicity peaks around the screen to see a Facebook profile page.

"She's updating her profile!" Felicity whispers.

David leans over, peering around the monitor. Evidently, the woman is trying to pick a flattering profile picture. She's torn between a close headshot and full body angle.

"I'd pick that one," he says, pointing to the screen. "It showcases your breathtaking, blue eyes."

Finally, she looks up from the screen and into David's handsome face. She blushes and looks away, checking her reflection in a desktop mirror.

"What can I do for you?" she says flirtatiously, running her long nails through her blue tinted hair.

"Hi, I'm David." He outstretches his left hand.

"Oh, another lefty!" she squeals, letting her hand go limp in his.

"Us lefties have to stick together," he says, lifting her hand to his face. "What's your name?"

"I'm Gretchen." She giggles, pulling her hand back and batting her clumpy lashes.

Felicity rolls her eyes, attempting to catch a glance of her brain.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Gretchen. This is my associate, Felicity."

"The pleasure is all mine, David."

"Could you spare a couple minutes for some questions, Gretchen?"

"What kind of questions?" She crosses her arms and eyes him playfully. "You're not a cop, are you?"

"No, of course not. I'm a private detective."

"Oh? A real life private eye? I should have known. You have Magnum P.I. written all over you. Go ahead, ask away."

"We're conducting interviews involving a recent double homicide. Have you heard about the Miss Scarlet case?"

Her eyes widen. "How could I possibly be of any assistance in that case?"

"Do you know Trisha Denardi?"

"Yes, she's my friend... oh, Robert. Robert was a victim of the Miss Scarlet killer?" She pauses, staring off into space. "Heh, serves him right."

"Why do you say that?"

"That scoundrel cheated on Trish, blew her life savings, and then left her for a younger woman. I can't think of anything more low." She stops, hand covering her mouth. "Wait. You don't suspect Trish, do you?"

"Actually—" Felicity starts.

"No, we don't," David interrupts. "We came here to verify her alibi, so we can completely eliminate her as a suspect."

"What can I do to help?"

"Do you know what she was doing from one to three on the morning of April 7th?"

She turns back to her computer, pulling up her weekly schedule. "That would have been two days ago. Last Friday?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's easy. She was here with me, picking up an extra shift. As you know, living in Los Angeles is expensive, so sometimes, we do the night shift to get some extra cash. It's more fun if we do it together. Plus there are fewer rules during the night shift," she says with a wink.

"Thank you, Gretchen."

"Is there anyone else who can corroborate your story?" Felicity interjects.

"Why, yes. Just all of the doctors, nurses, patients and custodial staff that were working at the time. If you don't take my word for it, I suppose you could check the security feeds." She points up to a dome camera pointed directly at them.

"Yes, that'd actually be helpful."

"I'll call a security guard to take you to the control room. You can see for yourself. Have a seat," she says, gesturing to a stone bench beside the fountain.

With a satisfied expression, Felicity marches over to the fountain.

"Your associate doesn't trust me."

"Don't take it personally. She doesn't trust anyone. She's not a good judge of character," he says, winking. "Thanks for all your help, Gretchen."

"No problem. If you need anything else, don't hesitate to stop by."

"I might just take you up on that."

He turns and meets Felicity at the fountain. She's staring at a quarter at the bottom of the agitated pool.

"You're not left-handed."

"I had to check her finger for a wedding ring."

"Ew, David. She's almost sixty!"

"I wasn't interested in her, Fel! I just don't like flirting with married women."

"But, you like flirting with sixty-year-olds?"

"No! I was using my talents to charm information out of an uncooperative witness."

"You're talents? You really think you're the only one who can flirt, don't you?"

"Well, yeah. Felicity, you have your talents, but charm isn't one of them."

"We'll see about that."

A stocky security guard emerges from the elevator behind the reception desk. He approaches Gretchen with a tight mouth. She points in the detectives' direction, speaking inaudibly. His head drops, and his barrel chest slowly rises and falls, as if in pain. Making his way in their direction, he paints a smile on his concave face.

"Gretchen says you need to see the tapes."

"Yes, why don't you take me up to your control room, big fella," Felicity says, jutting her hip out awkwardly.

"Okay..."

He leads them to the elevator from which he came. It's a long elevator meant for transporting patients on gurneys. David stands in the back corner watching Felicity intently. She takes her position next to the security guard.

"I'm Felicity," she says in her best breathy radio voice. She extends her hand, letting it go limp in his firm grasp. He shakes it roughly.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Keith." He drops her hand, reaching over to press the three button.

"Wow, do you work out?"

"Yeah, three times a week," he says, staring at the crack between the elevator doors.

"I can tell. You'd have to for those pythons." She flexes her puny bicep in his direction, but to no avail.

David stifles a laugh from the corner. The stainless steel elevator doors swing open none too soon for the uncomfortable Keith. He leads them down a crowded corridor to a room scarcely larger than a janitor's closet. A dozen flat screens line the largest wall above a long wooden desk. Keith plops onto his office chair and adjusts his monitor.

"You need footage from the front desk?"

"Yes, Keith," she says, a trifle too close.

"From what day?"

"One to three a.m. on Friday."

He clicks through numbered folders and finally pulls up the footage in question. Sure enough, Trish is at the front desk chatting it up with Gretchen.

"Have you seen enough?" asks David, arms crossed.

"Fast-forward through it, if you don't mind, Keith." She lays her hand on his shoulder and looks over it, dangerously close to his cheek.

Felicity watches the time stamp rapidly increase in the bottom corner. An hour into the footage, Trish disappears.

"Wait! Where did she go?" she screams into Keith's ear. She looks back at David triumphantly.

"Relax." Keith rolls his chair away from her and rubs his ear. "She probably went to the bathroom."

"Uh, sorry," she says, clearing her throat. She quickly falls back into character. "Why don't you pull up another camera angle, so we can follow her?" She runs her fingertips along the top of the monitor.

"Or... we could wait and see if she comes back."

"Or that," she whispers.

Trish returns to the frame ten digital minutes later with two coffees in her hand. She hands one to Gretchen and they continue their nocturnal vigil.

"See?"

The rest of the footage is uneventful and it soon times out.

"Thanks, Keith."

Her and David file out of the cramped control room and back into the elevator.

"You'd have to for those pythons," David mocks in a high-pitched voice.

She glares at him, sending him into convulsive laughter. He clutches his side with one hand and grasps the railing with the other.

"I wish I'd been recording that. I would have used it for my ringtone!"

She punches him in the arm as the elevator doors swing open. Gretchen swivels in her chair and waves at David.

"I'm gonna go tell Gretchen!"

"Don't you dare!"

She grabs his arm with both hands, pulling him away. She manages to get him past the reception desk before he slips out of her grasp and sprints in Gretchen's direction.

"David!"

She dashes after him and tries to yank him back from the counter. He doesn't budge. His and Gretchen's eyes are glued to the television on the back wall. The same dull news reporter is talking again. What she's reporting is anything but dull.

"The Miss Scarlet killer has struck again." 

Author's Note: This one's a little longer. Any theories about the identity of the Miss Scarlet killer? ;) 

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