Disclaimer: Disney owns Frozen

Agdar ran through his mental checklist as he picked at the last of his breakfast. First and foremost, he was going to have to shake the tails that both Weselton and the National Police surely had on him. Call Idunn. Make a few other calls, work out his arrangements, refine his plan. It was the one area of his being that his enemies couldn't penetrate: his mind. It was a comforting thought. Agdar was getting his confidence back, and he was determined to make things as difficult for Weselton and Westergard as he possibly could.

He'd stayed in the archives until late in the afternoon, fascinated by the journal. Context indeed. The information he'd gleaned would help set the succession firmly, if he could only track down a few last pieces. And for that, he needed to leave Arendelle City. Quietly, and with no unwanted companionship.

Margareta had finally had to ask him to leave, as they needed to close up the archives for the day. She asked if he'd found what he needed, and he told her that he thought so, but would likely come back soon to have another look. They had a brief discussion about the journal. Margareta seemed to agree with majority of historians about the princess whose journal it was – she was a minor figure, beautiful but somewhat vapid, a spare whose only importance was that she produced a child who inherited the Crocus Throne from her unmarried older sister.

That opinion would change when scholars got a look at this journal, Agdar was sure. He saw a sharp mind behind what just appeared to be the ramblings of a somewhat flighty teenager. Ramblings that dropped important clues, fleshed out the issues of the times, and gave an up-close, personal insight to what was one of the most important eras in Arendelle's history.

And most importantly, she had left another marker – perhaps the last one he needed – to find the once and future queen.

He went to his study to gaze at his treasured painting, to draw some much-needed strength for the events that lay ahead. He switched on the light, then choked back an anguished cry.

The painting was gone.

Agdar stared in disbelief at the empty frame hanging over his desk. He walked to the desk on unsteady legs, put his hand through the frame and touched the wall behind it. He'd been robbed.

Hands shaking, he pulled out his phone to call the police. Just as he did, the phone rang. He did not recognize the number. He swiped his thumb across the screen. "Erikksen," he said.

"I'll be there in two minutes, sir," Gustaf's voice said. "Are you going to your office?"

Agdar didn't react right away, his mind reeling.

"Are you going to the office, sir?" Gustaf asked again.

"Yes," Agdar managed. He hung up and stared at the empty frame. Weselton and Westergard. It had to be.

First Elsa, and now his painting. What else would the bastards try to take from him? He clenched his fist and pounded on the wall behind the empty frame.

Fine. Now it's my turn.

He went to his den, where he had a state-of-the-art home entertainment system. A giant TV, stereo, expensive speakers with surround sound, Blu-Ray player, even a VCR to play his old VHS tapes, all of it built into customized wood cabinets. He didn't worry much about burglars in here, since taking any of the components would involve tools and the complex removal of the cabinet pieces.

A burglar stripping the house clean would have pissed him off less than the theft of his painting.

Agdar reached into the VCR's tape slot and pulled out a passport, credit card, and driver's permit, all under an alias. He slipped them into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, then reached back into the slot and removed a small bundle of hundred-kroner bills. He slid that into his jacket as well.

He looked out his front window. It was raining, a dreary downpour that matched his mood. His car pulled up next to the curb, and Gustaf looked out through the windshield, clearly reluctant to go out in the rain. Agdar certainly wasn't going to him – he was more than happy to let the idiot cool his heels in the car until he figured it out. He picked up the Infernal Briefcase and went back to the dining room, setting it on the table and popping it open. He carefully checked the modifications he'd made to the miniature recording system. Then he sat back, reading his newspaper and sipping his coffee until the doorbell rang.

He took his time answering. Gustaf stood scowling on his front steps, rain dripping from his hair. "I told you I'd be here in two minutes."

Agdar just gave him a cool stare. "And? Am I now beholden to my driver's schedule rather than my own?"

Gustaf reddened, but could hardly argue with him. "We can go whenever you're ready, sir."

Agdar retrieved his umbrella and the Infernal Briefcase, smirking as Gustaf ran down to the car. Gustaf opened the door for him, but he took his time getting there. He climbed into the back seat and stiffened.

"Good morning, Agdar," Eckbert Weselton greeted him. Hans Westergard grinned wolfishly at him from the front passenger seat.

Agdar's eyes shifted from one to the other. "Good morning," he said as calmly as he could.

Westergard glanced at his briefcase, and gave him a questioning look.

Agdar nodded his head toward the brown sedan parked down the block. It was undeniably an unmarked police car. "I'm going to my office. My watchers will certainly expect me to take my briefcase."

Weselton nodded. "I suppose they will. You're getting better at this, Agdar."

Agdar's fingers twitched, and he tightened them around the briefcase's handle. "Where is my painting?"

"Don't worry, it's in a safe place. Which is really more than you deserve right now."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

Westergard leaned over the seat. "That means Anna Aarndahl, P.I. The person you hired to follow Elsa Kjarensen."

Agdar pressed his lips together. How had they found out about Anna Aarndahl? Had he now put another young woman in danger? He swallowed and said, "I didn't know that Elsa had gone to the National Police when I did that. I was only concerned for her safety."

"And why would you be concerned for her safety, Mr. Erikksen?" Westergard asked, an infuriating half-smile on his face.

"I think you know the answer to that."

Weselton looked offended. "Why in the world would we want to harm Elsa Kjarensen? I hardly even know her."

"Does that really make a difference to you? You've harmed plenty of people you don't know."

"Enough! You were wrong to hire a private investigator, Agdar. It's caused unnecessary complications. Your painting will probably be returned to you. But for now, learn to get along without it."

"How did you get into my house? I have a security system."

Weselton and Westergard both burst out laughing. "Oh, please," Weselton said. "You really have no idea who you're dealing with, do you?"

Agdar curled his fingers into the leather seat, fighting the urge to wrap them around the man's scrawny neck.

"I find you so amusing, Agdar. Running around hugging the trees and trying to save the have-nots. You just don't understand, it's the way of the world. A balance. Rich and poor. Powerful and powerless. We'll always have it, and there is nothing you can do to change that. You just have to make sure that you're on the right side of the equation."

"And which side is that?"

"Oh, I think you know the answer to that," Westergard mocked. "Just like people will always hate each other, will always betray each other. That's how we got onto you, you know. Someone was jealous of you, jealous of your success. So he turned on you, just like Elsa did."

Agdar closed his eyes. He refused to believe that Elsa had voluntarily betrayed him.

"We were in a competition of sorts, you and I," Weselton put in. "And I make it my business to know everything about my competitors. This man didn't know about your little scheme, but said enough to rouse my curiosity. So we tapped your office, your home, even your car. What a treasure trove we found."

"Yes, yes, I'm quite impressed with your acumen. Now where is Elsa?"

"Actually, we were hoping you could tell us that," Westergard said.

"What do you want with her, Westergard?" Agdar demanded.

"Perhaps I want her to come work for me." That wolfish grin again. "I bet she's quite…talented."

Agdar trembled and dug his fingers deeper into the leather. He longed to throw himself over the seat and beat the man to a bloody pulp. Westergard knew exactly which buttons to push. Agdar could not give him the satisfaction of a violent response.

"Enough, Hans," Weselton said, his voice tinged with amusement. "I want Miss Kjarensen to come work for me, Agdar, the same way that you do. After all, I've known about you much longer than the National Police have, and I won't let them undo all my hard work."

There was a dangerous edge to the man's snivelly voice. The hairs on the back of Agdar's neck stood up. He shifted the briefcase in his hand and chose his words carefully. "What can Elsa possibly give you that I haven't already?"

"I'm just stacking the equation in my favor. Two resources are always better than one."

"Does your equation include the NP agent you had murdered?"

Weselton gave him a cold stare. "You would be well-served to stay in your own lane in this race, Agdar."

Not if you intend to involve Elsa. In whatever sick capacity you have in mind. "But I'm interested in all the results, not just mine. You told me Elsa had gone to the National Police. Then I hear that an agent was killed while working on an undisclosed case, the very same night that Elsa disappeared." He side-eyed Westergard, who watched him with a trace of amusement on his handsome features. "I admit it – I hired Aarndahl to follow Elsa, to make sure she was safe. But she hasn't reported to me. Did you have her killed too?"

Weselton sniffed. "I'm a businessman. I don't have people killed."

"The NPs got onto Elsa somehow, and you couldn't have that, could you? Your whole scheme falls apart if she tells them about me. And I didn't believe for a minute that you would let me walk away when you're done with me. I haven't survived this long in my business by being an idiot."

"Interesting concept, survival," Westergard said, narrowing his eyes. "I doubt - "

Agdar shot forward and got in his face. "I've forgotten more about survival than you've ever learned, pup. Has it ever even crossed your mind that you might not always be the smartest guy in the room? Or have your successes so far already gone to your pretty head?"

Westergard's face reddened, and he bared his teeth. Agdar gave him a shark-like grin as he sat back.

"Now, I consider myself something of partner with you two - " he paused to feign a shudder – "abhorrent as I find that idea. And as your partner, I want to know if you had that NP killed, because I want to know exactly what I have to do to get out of this nightmare."

The other two men simply stared at him, so he pressed on, feeling a bit reckless now. "And I want to know if you killed Elsa and Aarndahl. And if you don't tell me, well, then, the second I leave this car, I'm going to walk back to that one." He pointed out the back window at the brown sedan, now trailing fifty yards behind them. "If you think you can kill me with the NPs watching, go right ahead."

Weselton's eyes widened, but Westergard just gave him a calculating look. Agdar focused his attention on the younger man. "You know the old tale of the trees and the axe, don't you?" Westergard shook his head slightly. "Did your mother not read to you?"

That earned him a snarl. "Pity. Well, I'll tell it to you, then. A man goes into the forest to ask the trees to give him a handle for his axe. The trees grant his request, and give him an ash tree. No sooner has the man fashioned his axe handle than he began to use it, felling the giants of the forest. An old oak, mourning the destruction of his companions, said to a young cedar, "Had we not given the ash, we would have stood for ages.'"

He looked back and forth between Weselton and Westergard and smiled. "Mister Oak. Mister Cedar."

The two men just stared at him for a very long minute.

Finally Weselton broke the silence. "Kjarensen had to be eliminated. The agent was with her, so he had to go too. No loose ends."

My God. Agdar stopped himself from swallowing. "But you missed Elsa."

"Your private detective got in the way! If not for your blunder, this catastrophe never would have happened!"

Agdar raised his hands in front of him. "It never occurred to me that you would try to kill anyone. I just didn't want her involved. So you have no idea where she is?"

"It's only a matter of time until we find her," Westergard said with a slight smile. "Where there's a lure, there's always possibility."

"And what, exactly, does that mean?"

"It means we're finished talking," Westergard said, giving Weselton a hard look.

A few minutes later, they pulled into the garage below Agdar's office building. Gustaf parked the car, and Agdar opened the door. Before he got out, he said, "If you gentlemen need a ride somewhere, Gustaf is at your disposal."

He glanced at the brown sedan rolling down the garage ramp, then grinned at Weselton and slammed the car door.

Hans stared at Erikksen's retreating back, his mind churning. Where had the man's sudden confidence come from? He acted like he had the upper hand, when Hans was fairly certain that he didn't. Did Erikksen know something that Hans didn't?

He thought back to the previous evening. He knew Erikksen had seen the journal. Margareta was always quite forthcoming about her work, especially when they lay in his bed afterward, sweating and sated. She took pride in her work, and he'd learned just the right ways to touch her to keep her talking. He now knew everything that she knew about the journal, which wasn't nearly as much as he needed.

Somehow Erikksen had managed to get unrestricted access to it for several hours. He likely had gleaned much more than Hans had been able to get from Margareta, even with the pictures she'd provided. Hans needed the same access. Could Margareta arrange that? She thought Erikksen was a historian doing scholarly research. Hans bit back a derisive snort. He knew his lover was easily deceived – after all, she thought Hans actually cared for her.

Well, maybe he did, in his own way. But such attachments were bothersome and had to be kept in perspective. After all, Westergards did not do emotion.

Except for when it suited their interests. In this case, love did not suit his interests. Desire, perhaps. But not love.

Hans pushed those thoughts aside and turned back to the Weasel, who was also watching Erikksen. "Something's changed," he said. "We need to keep a closer eye on him."

"Agreed," Weselton replied. "Gustaf, keep a tight watch on him. He is not to be out of your sight."

"Yes, sir."

A gray town car came down the ramp into the garage and parked next to them. Gustaf got out and opened the door for the Weasel. Hans joined him in the town car, his phone already out and pressed to his ear.

"Step up the watch on Erikksen. Put someone on his house, and someone on his NP tail."

He hung up and leaned back in the seat, pondering how to attack this new development.

Kristoff poked at the fire and added another log. He picked up his coffee mug and stared into the flames. When was the last time he was home at this time on a workday? He wasn't sure. Maybe right after his Politiskolen graduation. No, it was probably the last time Grandpabbie had been sick, and he had taken shifts with Bulda to watch him.

Suspended. He'd never imagined something like that happening to him. Suspensions were things that happened to agents who'd lost their way, who were unethical or criminal or just plain incompetent. But he was none of those things, and yet it had happened to him anyway. Four years as an agent, and his career was teetering on the edge of a cliff.

His hands kept straying to his belt, where his creds should have been. It was like poking his tongue at a missing tooth, a space where there shouldn't be one.

If he lost his job, what would he do? The other Royal agencies wouldn't touch him if he the NPs fired him. Nor would the Arendelle City Police. He supposed he could return to the mountains of his early childhood. Maybe a village constable would hire him.

Kristoff looked across the room at his grandfather, snoozing in his recliner, a blanket tucked up around his chin. Kristoff had found him in the backyard an hour earlier, ambling along the fence and staring up into the pouring rain with a beatific smile. The old man, in one of his rare completely lucid moments, asked Kristoff what he was doing at home. Kristoff stammered through a lame explanation about changes at the office, earning a skeptical squint before Grandpabbie sank back into his fog, muttering under his breath about strange magic.

Sven bumped his leg. "Hey there, boy." He patted the dog's head. He squatted down and scratched behind the big dog's ears, then dug his fingers into his ruff. "What am I going to do, boy? How am I going to take care of Bulda and Grandpabbie?"

Sven had an affectionate nuzzle and lick to the face to offer, but no advice.

Kristoff ran his hand through his hair. Grandpabbie's retirement pension included some health care, but Bulda had nothing. She'd given up her job to take care of Grandpabbie. And there was no guarantee that a new employer would allow him to claim them as dependents—

Sven's thunderous barking and chime of the doorbell pulled him from his thoughts. He followed the dog to the front door, where he could see Kai looking through the decorative glass. Unsure if this was a good sign or not, he opened the door and waved the older man into the house.

Kai took a silently proffered cup of coffee and settled onto the worn armchair in the den. He patted Sven, and studied Kristoff in thoughtful silence. Kristoff was suddenly conscious of his worn jeans and old Grøntfjell Avalanche hockey sweater, and tried not to fidget.

"Did they talk to you?" he finally asked.

Kai nodded. "Lieutenant Sinclair and Chifu. I came very close to being suspended myself."

"Why?!"

"Because I was this close - " Kai raised his hand, his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart – "to knocking Chifu on his backside."

"Don't tank your career or get arrested for me, Kai."

"If I had done it, it would have been for me, not for you. That pathetic excuse for an agent." Kai sounded as angry as Kristoff had ever heard him. "The most disturbing thing is that they actually believe that you're involved in all of this."

He settled back against the chair, turning his coffee mug in his hands. "I told them that you wanted to go with Kjarensen that night because you had the best relationship with her, but we also had the potential whistleblower from Energy that we just couldn't put off. I also told them how unsure you were, that you didn't really know if sending Persie alone with Kjarensen was the right thing to do, but she couldn't really be put off either, because she was still so much on the fence."

"What did they say to that?"

"They didn't want to hear it. They've already made their decision."

Kristoff dug his fingers into the thick fur around Sven's neck and scratched. He waited for Kai to continue, but as the silence stretched on, he finally asked, "Did they tell you about the money?"

Kai nodded. "I don't like adding insult to injury, Kristoff, but what were you thinking? Why would you investigate Persie's finances without telling someone? You know we work in teams for a reason, not the least of which is covering each other's backsides." He took a big swallow of his coffee and set the mug on the side table. "Now you have no one to corroborate your story except for Aggie Norberg, and as far as Sinclair and Chifu are concerned, she doesn't count."

Kristoff ran a hand through his hair. "I just…it's not fair to Aggie and the kids. They lost Persie, they should at least be able to keep his good name."

"I know," Kai said. "And as a friend of Persie's, I can appreciate that. But speaking as an agent…if he was being paid off, well, perhaps his reputation doesn't deserve your protection."

"We don't know that for sure yet."

Kai raised an eyebrow. "Cash in a safe-deposit box under an alias? How many legitimate reasons are there to do that? The most innocent reason would be tax evasion, and that's a career-ender, too."

Kristoff just stared into the fire. The easiest thing would be to just accept that Persie was into something dirty, and that he, too, had gotten splattered. But how?

"Kai, why would the bank call the department directly? I mean, they have to file a tax report if there's a big deposit, but why call the cops? And how did they find out that I was looking at Persie's finances? Aggie asked me for help, I can't believe she'd call them."

"I asked those questions myself. They wouldn't say - I suspect they don't trust me. I poked around some, though, and I think there was a phone tip. I also went to the bank and waved my creds around. The bank got an anonymous call saying that your grandfather's account was being used in some funny business, so they called the department's fraud line."

"There's something weird going on, Kai. Sinclair and Chifu knew about Grandpabbie's account before I did. I was in the car and on my way to meet them when Bulda called me about it."

"Yes, Sinclair told me you were claiming that you were set up. Well, I think you're correct about that."

Something unknotted inside Kristoff. He hadn't realized how much he needed someone, anyone, to believe him. The fact that Kai, with all his years of experience, believed him and was still loyal, meant more than he could express.

"Kai, being seen here, well, it's not exactly going to help your career, you know. I'm sure Chifu put a tail on me."

"I'm your tail, actually."

"Wait, what?"

"I called in a few markers. Both Sinclair and Chifu owe me, but they're sorely mistaken if they think this makes us even." Kai's mouth quirked in a grim smile. "But don't get excited, Kristoff. You screwed up, badly, and you gave the two of them a scapegoat to toss to the wolves if this investigation blows up in our faces."

Kristoff stared, shocked by the uncharacteristic bluntness. "Tell me what you really think, Agent Haugland."

"Do you really want me to waste time sugarcoating your predicament?" Kai demanded. "Or do you want my help to clear your name?"

Kristoff gulped. He had to clear his name. He could lose it all otherwise. "But I have no creds. No gun. No authority."

"But you have me. I have creds, a gun, and after all these years, I practically exude authority." He smiled broadly, and Kristoff chuckled. "Get your coat, and let's go find Elsa Kjarensen. If we can get her back, I think the pieces will start to fall into place."

"Sounds good to me." Kristoff went to the closet to grab his raincoat. "You know, you don't have to do this, Kai. You could get in a lot of trouble."

"I'll take my chances. Besides, I'm second-in-command, and the squad still has an investigation to run. I don't know if you heard, but our supervisor went off the rails and got himself suspended."

"Yeah, pretty bone-headed move on his part."

"I do ask one thing in return, though."

"What's that?"

"When you go back to Headquarters to pick up your creds and gun, take me with you. I want to see Chifu's face."

"Deal."