Chiz sat down heavily and leaned his head in his hands. His sandpaper beard matched the feeling in his eyes. He pushed the butt-filled ashtray to the corner of his desk. It smelled better than the taste in his mouth. The ringing of the phone deafened the pounding in his head. No way was he going to answer it. Forms. Hell, he hated paperwork, even more than the stakeouts. Even when they go good for him and bad for the perps. The phone persisted. The forms stared at him accusingly. Screaming phone. Forms. He grabbed the phone.

"Why won't you go check on that nice woman? I've called four times now and you've done nothing. She's not brought me my paper for three days and that's not like her." The woman's voice screamed into Detective Chizum's ear even though he was holding it six inches away. Next time he'd fill out the damn forms. Four times, it seemed like twenty and he told her the same thing he told her before.

"Lady, she's a grown woman. She probably just went on a vacation or something."

"I always take in her mail when she's going any place. I tell you something's not right and I want you to do something about it."

"OK, OK. Give me her name and address." Too tired to care, he reluctantly agreed.

"Don't use that tone with me, young man. Her name's Gillian Taylor and she works at that whale place." He scribbled "Irving St." on the back of an old envelope as the lady rattled on.

"Oh boy," thought Chiz, "it just keeps getting better." Instead of saying what he thought he put a tired smile in his voice, "Whale place. You mean one of those seafood restaurants in the wharf area. She a waitress?"

The woman breathed audibly, perturbed by the idiocy of the man. "The whale museum, you know where George and Gracie live."

"Oh, yeah I've heard of the place. Never managed to get over there." It wasn't exactly on his top ten list of things to do.

"Well, are you going to do anything or not?"

"Tell you what, Mrs. Schimmerman, I'll go take a look at her place this afternoon and check out where she works," hoping that would placate her and get her off his back. He pulled the disgusting ashtray back into place while patting himself down for a cigarette. First he was going home long enough to grab a couple of hours of rack time.

"I should think so." Hanging up the phone loud enough to make him wince, she voiced her opinion of the police department.

Detective Chizum was one of those guys that managed to exist between neat and sloppy. His suit was of good quality, but disheveled. Sitting in a smelly warehouse in the docks all night hadn't helped. His light-brown hair was just long enough that he was thinking about a trim. A well-worn thirty-something kind of guy. Grandmothers called him handsome, five kids called him uncle, and women called him all the time. The kind of guy that would do what he said he would even though visiting a couple of whales wasn't exactly how he had planned to spend his day.

"Hey Chuck, would you run this name for me," he called, ripping a sheet from the yellow pages on his way out the door. "Just leave it on my desk."

Chuck grunted a yes, sniffed. "Gee, Chiz, hot date last night?"

Museums, he quickly scanned the ads for George and Gracie. The Maritime Cetacean Institute over in Sausalito, the only museum exclusively devoted to whales, or so the ad stated. She probably worked in one of those gift shops selling cute little stuffed Gracies. Hey, it was a nice day and nobody had been murdered, mugged or robbed in the last few hours, so a trip across the bay might be relaxing.

Not as relaxing as his nap on the couch had been, thought Chiz as he leaned on a rail staring at an empty tank. George and Gracie had flown the coop three days ago, sent back to the oceans. A big sign announced the fact and local newspapers had heralded the story. He made a mental note to read the newspapers that had been piling up on his kitchen table all week. He'd obviously missed George and Gracie's exit.

"Bob, nice to meet you. They told me out front that you're the director of this place." Chiz flashed his identification. "I'm trying to locate a woman named Gillian Taylor. I was told that she worked here." He scrutinized Bob. Average looking guy, brown hair, casually dressed for a director.

"Dr. Taylor is the assistant director of the institute. She's one of the foremost cetacean biologists in the country," Bob stated matter-of-factly. "She's also a friend of mine." The latter added with a hint of doubt in his voice.

"A friend of yours. Good, then I suppose you've seen her in the last couple of days."

"Uh, no. She hasn't been in to work." Bob shuffled some papers, scratched his head, folded his hands and then looked off to the side. What was he going to say? He hadn't really expected to see her for a few days, not until she cooled off. He wasn't exactly looking forward to the verbal thrashing he knew he would get when she did return either.

Chiz's eyebrows arched questioningly. "She say where she was going?"

"No."

Boy, what this guy wasn't saying spoke volumes. Body language never lied. Since he was obviously nervous and hiding something, Chiz settled into his seat, making it apparent that he wasn't leaving until he found out what it was. He reached for his cigarettes, slowly shaking one out of the pack. A pack of smokes was one of the best tools in a detective's arsenal.

"Don't suppose it had anything to do with her slapping you in the face and running off?"

Bob's head jerked up and then he sighed, "How did you know about that?"

"Everybody knows. It's all over the place. I heard it at the Coke machine. Must have been some argument if they're all still gossiping about it. Lovers' quarrel?"

"Heavens no! Nothing like that. She was just very upset about the whales being flown to Alaska. I, uh, didn't tell her."

Chiz didn't believe him. His bet was still on the love angle. Usually was. Nobody would get that upset over a couple of fish. Chiz remained silent, taking his time lighting the cigarette and inhaling deeply. "So tell me, Dr. Briggs, exactly what time was this little quarrel?"

"Around seven-thirty. I haven't seen her since. She has plenty of vacation time on the books and I figured she'd decided she needed a break to cool off. She really loved those whales. And--" He stopped abruptly.

"And?"

"Well, I haven't told her yet that we lost them."

"You lost 'em. The whales?"

"Yes."

"Just how do you go about losing a couple of whales that weigh what, thirty or forty tons each?"

"Look, I can't explain it. They were tagged with radio frequencies. The signal's gone. Nothing. It's been three days."

"Anything else?" Chiz grinned to himself. This guy was in for some big-time woman trouble when the good doctor returned.

"Well, there was some trouble the day before. Some weirdo jumped into the whale tank and took a swim with Gracie. You don't really think she's missing, do you?" The concern in his voice seemed genuine enough. A puff of smoke rose to the ceiling as Chiz took his time to answer. "I think you really pissed her off." The question was whether she was mad enough to confront him again and this time he did something about it.

It was a short drive across the bay to the house on Irving Street located in the Sunset district. Time enough for his half-filled Styrofoam cup of coffee to get cold. Chiz flicked the butt of a cigarette into it and climbed out of the car. Maybe he should cut back. Wasn't there some article or something the other day about 'em being a health hazard, lung cancer? Of course doctors were always saying stuff like that. Another scare tactic, right up there with saccharin and global warming, whatever that was.

He'd only gotten one foot on the pavement before a door opened and an old lady with pink foam curlers in her hair came stomping across the street. Not that she'd look any better with the curly frizz she would probably end up with. The purple stretch pants and yellow flip-flops added a whole new meaning to the word fashionable.

"You the detective that I talked to?"

"Yes ma'am." No use getting her mad again. She'd already complained to the chief.

"Come on. I got a key. I'll let you in."

"Lady, I don't have a warrant, nor do I have probable cause."

"Fiddle, faddle. I own the place and if I want to let you in I will. I'm sure something's happened to her. If it weren't for me no one would ever notice the poor girl was missing."

Chiz wasn't so sure but prudently kept his mouth shut. The house was small but well kept. A faint odor of lemon still clung to the stifling air as if the door and windows hadn't been opened recently after a thorough bout of cleaning. Except for the whale pictures on all of the walls, it screamed ordinary. The second bedroom served as an office, the bookshelves crammed with textbooks and probably every conceivable marine biology book in print. One sat prominently displayed, and glancing at the cover he discovered why. The author was Dr. Gillian Taylor. The picture on the cover showed a young blond woman with an animated face. A woman delighted in her work. Whales seemed to be her life.

Above the desk was a framed poem by D. H. Lawrence, "Whales Weep Not!"

They say the sea is cold, but the sea contains the hottest blood of all, and the wildest, the most urgent.

The woman was certainly passionate about her work. A passionate woman would have other passions as well. He just needed to discover what they were, or who they were. The insipid director didn't seem her type.

Opening the drawers, he scanned the contents. Her checkbook was a mess but revealed a healthy balance. He jotted down the account number, intending to check at the bank later. There didn't appear to be any recent withdrawals. The address book was pitifully void of addresses.

"What about her family? Any word from them?"

"She doesn't have any family. Only child, you know. Her mother died a couple of years ago. Cancer if I recall." She scratched at a curler and thought for a minute before adding, "she never talks about her dad. I figure he's long gone. Only steady boyfriend she had quit coming around when her mom got sick. Didn't like him much, I knew he wasn't for her. He talked real strange. I think he's one of those professors at Berkeley now. Some sort of behavior psychologist. Let me tell you, his behavior was..." and she continued to drone on.

There wasn't much to see. Nothing seemed disturbed. No forced entry of any kind. She hadn't bothered to pack either. Chiz didn't think there was a woman alive who went on a three-day trip without her makeup bag. As far as Chiz could tell she hadn't packed anything. Maybe the old broad was right. The mail on the table revealed little except that her electric and gas bills were due.

The sterile white kitchen was small but adequate. Opening the refrigerator door, the abundance of food indicated that she'd gone to the market recently. Fresh produce filled one bin. A Post-it note on the door indicated she was planning on attending a potluck dinner on Friday. The recipe was taped on the door as well. He looked. Yep, the refrigerator contained every ingredient on the recipe.

Chiz didn't like it. His gut always told him when something bad had gone down at a scene. A sixth sense sort of thing. He was good at his job, it just gave him an edge. This time, nothing. He couldn't deny the fact any longer that the woman was missing. With absolutely no evidence of the fact. She just wasn't there. Nice solid police work. The chief would laugh him back onto the streets as a beat cop. His gut had never lied to him before.

Returning to the station, Chiz found Chuck's report on his desk along with a stack of police reports. Dr. Gillian Taylor, thirty-eight, single. Decent picture but not as good as the one on the jacket cover. It had looked professionally done. Couple of parking tickets but otherwise a clean slate. DMV showed that she drove an old Chevy pickup, light blue. He hadn't noticed it at the house. He put out an APB on the truck. It was his best bet at the moment.

Chiz pulled his chair up after hanging his jacket on it, loosened his tie, rolled up his sleeves and got into work mode. He scanned through the pile of case folders that the chief had dumped on his desk. He couldn't spend all of his time trying to find one lousy fish doctor. A penciled note was attached to the top file, short and sweet, "You're going to love this one." Chiz wasn't going to love anything without a hot cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. After satisfying both needs, he started to read.

An unknown, critically injured man had escaped from a second floor operating room of Mercy Hospital in the Mission district while under police guard. He had been arrested for unlawful entry onto the U.S. Naval ship Enterprise. While being interrogated by the FBI, the suspect had fled. After being chased through the ship and across the hangar deck, he had fallen into an open cargo elevator, causing severe head trauma. Two men and a woman, all dressed in green hospital scrubs, aided in his escape. They had entered the operating room, locked the surgeon, the anesthesiologist and two nurses in a small room and then melted the lock using an unknown device. One of the men then used another device to arouse the comatose patient. The suspect had not been apprehended since his unorthodox escape. The suspects were considered armed and dangerous. Government Contact: Commander Rogerson, United States Navy.

Photos of the four suspects taken from the security cameras at the hospital were included in the file.

"Holy hell," exclaimed Chiz, nearly spilling hot coffee into his lap. One of the suspects was Dr. Gillian Taylor. She'd just escalated from victim to suspect. What had she gotten herself into? What possible connection could there be between a whale biologist and some guy breaking into a naval ship? Where did the other two men come into this? Chiz didn't know but he was sure as hell going to find out! Here he was starting to actually worry about her and she was off committing crimes in some hospital. Patty Hearst had competition.

Dialing the number given for Commander Rogerson, he identified himself and waited to be patched through to the ship. "Commander Rogerson, this is Detective Chizum. I'm working on a case that seems to be connected somehow to your intruder." After giving a brief description of what he had just read, he asked, "I was wondering what you could tell me."

"Well, there's not much to tell on this end. Our FBI guys interrogated him for a couple of minutes, then he ran and fell into the open cargo elevator. He stated his name as Commander Pavel Chekov, service number 656-5827D. The guy thought he was some sort of space man, a Starfleet commander in the United Federation of Planets. He grabs his ray gun off the table and says, 'I will have to stun you.' Sounded like something from one of those old late night TV shows." He does something to the gun, we're not sure what, no trigger or anything, and of course nothing happens. Then he says 'Must be the radiation.' He took off. Next thing we know he's practically dead and we have to ship him off to the hospital. Not much we could do here. His injuries were too severe. They almost lost him on the way to Mercy.

"We checked his fingerprints. They came back negative. No ID on him and we checked all the mental hospitals. We're checking with Interpol as well. Basically we got nothing. We haven't even figured out how he got belowdeck. We weren't secured, in port for some routine maintenance, but that doesn't mean some wacko off the street just drops on in and no one notices. That's my main concern at the moment. I want to know how he got in. If I have a security breach, I intend to plug it up. And I mean now. My men won't see the light of day until I find out how he got on board." Commander Rogerson was not a happy camper. Chiz couldn't really blame him. The brass on that base probably chewed up commanders and spit 'em out before breakfast. He'd never see captain's stripes sitting on his shoulders.

Copyright © 2003 by Paramount Pictures