"Good morning, Ray," Fraser murmured as Ray walked into the Consulate. For Ray to be here so early, without calling ahead of time, something must have occurred that requires his official liaison talents. "Welcome to Canada."

Ray let his eyes slip out of focus for a moment, ignoring Fraser's voice wrapping around his arms. The Mountie was looking better today; only the barest hint of dirty orange lingered at the fringes of Fraser's person. The moment passed and Ray read what Fraser had said. That classic voice was slanted in a question. Why was Ray here so very early?

"Yeah, god save the serge," Ray muttered, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Look, we gotta case. Big one." Oh, and now Fraser was well and truly red. A good, intriguing case was the surest way to rid Fraser of self-pitying orange; the Mountie was just too devoted to justice, truth and the Canadian way to wallow for long in the face of trouble.

"Ah," Fraser hummed. "And this case would benefit from the presence of--

Ray cut Fraser off before the man's voice made his eyes cross. "We got dead Canadians, Frase. You wanna help out?"

Oops, maybe that was a bit harsh; jagged tendrils of what Ray called fuck-you green trickled down to pool around Fraser's polished boots. "I see. Allow me to inform Inspector Thatcher of the situa--

This time, it was the Inspector herself who interrupted Fraser. "Constable, consider yourself assigned to this case until it is satisfactorily resolved." Ray looked everywhere but at the Inspector. Turnbull was at his usual post, so Ray let his eyes rest there. The ditzy Mountie was a surprising pool of calm, a strange mixture of olive green and lavender that made Ray think of the reference section of a library.

Fraser always seemed to wilt a bit in Thatcher's presence, tiny bits of orange and that nasty green creeping around to dull his pure, deep red. Ray wanted to get out of here, go anywhere where Fraser wouldn't look so...pained. "Pitter patter, Frase. Need to get to the crime scene before all the reporters get there," Ray said, holding the door open. Fraser let Diefenbaker exit first and then went ahead, exiting the Consulate for warmer climes.

"You're feeling better today," Ray observed as they drove to the crime scene. It was nothing less than the truth; even when confronted with Ray's abrasiveness and Thatcher's existence, Fraser looked better than he had the day before.

"I wasn't aware I felt poorly yesterday; did I appear to?" Fraser inquired a bit stiffly. This wasn't the first time Ray had noted that he seemed to look better than at their previous encounter. Odd how the detective never mentioned him looking ill when he seemed to. Fraser hadn't been ill yesterday, however. Perhaps a bit... lonely for home, but by no means ill.

Ray shook his head, mostly to make Fraser's voice dissipate. "Nah, you didn't look sick. Just seemed a bit...off. You know?"

Fraser hummed a noncommittal response and chose to change the subject. "What, exactly, are we seeking to find at this crime scene?"

This part, Ray could do easily. His own words were a miniscule, jagged print that fell efficiently into his lap, never interfering with his concentration. The details of the case were scarce and stark; three Canadian tourists were lying dead at two different downtown hotel/convention centers. At the moment, no one knew if there was any connection between the three victims. What they did know was that none of them died accidentally. Bullets rarely entered bodies accidentally, especially in the ways these people had died.

By the time they reached the first hotel, Fraser was back to his normal, tight red self. Ray was grateful that Fraser was in his 'less talk, more sniffing' mode; the fetid brown-black fog of death floating around the crime scene was enough to make Ray happy he hadn't eaten breakfast.

"She knew someone was after her," Fraser murmured, studying the position of the body. Ray nodded his agreement, although for different reasons than Fraser. The Mountie probably saw something weird about the grain of the carpet and the way the victim's shoes smudged polish on the fibers. Ray saw the stink of violence; it was echoed in the nasty colors that surrounded this poor woman. The overwhelming wrongness of the entire scene made Ray's stomach clench. Yeah, this was murder. He had the sinking feeling they'd find the exact same thing at the other two scenes.