By the time Michael arrives at the scene, the fire department has cordoned and cordoned off the whole street while the house burns like a house on fire. He's also trying to reach her on her cell phone, but keeps getting her voice mail. "It's Fi, leave a message," says her outgoing greeting. Given how much time I spend wishing she'd shut up, I find that kind of brevity refreshing. Michael ducks the caution tape, but can't get past the firefighters pushing him back, no matter how many questions he yells about whether anyone was in there. Normally he'd be able to have most of Miami-Dade's bravest lying on the pavement in a matter of seconds, but apparently he's forgotten all of his fu in his panic over Fi. The fire department keeps hosing down the house as he leaves, leaving her another voice mail. "Pick up the phone!," he yells, also having forgotten that cell phone voice mails don't usually work like answering machines. "Call me if you get this! I need to know where you are!" I'm really trying not to let my wishful thinking get the better of me here. Would they really kill of Fi? Well, as I may have said at some time, somewhere, this isn't 24.
By the time Michael gets home, it's dark and raining, so he's apparently been spending the balance of the day and night desperately searching for Fi at gun shows and tanning salons. After dialing his cell and getting Fi's voice mail for the umpteenth time (again, so glad she has a short greeting), he climbs the stairs to his loft, getting soaked in his despair Lloyd Dobbler-style. He takes so long enough getting his door unlocked and his key unstuck before turning around that we know damn well that Fi's in there waiting for him. "There you are," she drones from the counter. "You have got to get a landline in here." As Michael turns to look at her in amazement, Fi explains what happened: "I waited for a burnout in one of the windows. Now I need a new cell phone." She holds up the phone that is the only part of her that's remotely singed. Michael just walks right up to her, not saying a word, and she realizes what he thought. He drips on her a little bit before kissing her, and then drips on her some more as they go into a clinch. Well, Madeline will be happy.
After what I assume is a night of lots more dripping, Michael lets himself back into the loft with a takeout bag, trying to be quiet. "Breakfast? For me?" Carla asks from his counter, spoiling the mood. "I see Fiona's spending the night now," she adds. "Good for you, putting down roots." Carla asks how he investigation is going, and Michael starts spinning. "I ruled out everyone on the list you gave me. I took another look at the blast. I'm checking demolition specialists, private contractors. You could have someone look at that list and see if there's anyone worth flagging." Which would be fine, except he says it all in a tone that's perfectly calculated to both annoy Carla and telegraph the fact that he's lying. Carla is, to say the least, disappointed. "From what I hear, you have plenty of time to run around town playing dress-up with your friends, but the best you can do for me is a needle in a haystack?" she snarls at him. Michael asks if she has a better idea, and she tells him he's it. "Make no mistake, there are those who think you're more trouble than you're worth." Which is something I've kind of been saying for a while. Thanks for getting on board, Carla's coworkers. "I've convinced them that you're useful because you can find the bomber. What do you think's going to happen to you if you don't deliver?" "Same thing that would happen to you, I suppose," he retorts. And now we know why Carla's been so nervous all hour. "You gonna run that check for me?" Michael asks. Defeated, Carla asks for the list, and leaves him with a lame warning to look out for himself, or he won't be around to help anyone else. Bye again, Carla. Michael pulls out his phone and dials Fi's number, possibly to check whether she's still in the loft without actually going upstairs to check. "It's Fi, leave a message," he hears. Well, thanks for providing a little button to the episode, Michael. Even if it didn't make much sense.