Author's Note: Hope you all like this…I'm going in a bit of a strange direction, so don't hate me. 8-) I own nothing of this.
Chapter 1
6:02 a.m.
Jack sat down behind his desk with a cup of hot, black coffee. Vivian tapped on his doorway and smiled warmly.
"You're here early," she chided. Jack smirked into his coffee and expertly took a quick gulp without burning his tongue.
"I could say the same of you," he said hoarsely. Jack looked back up at her with an awkward nod. "It's good to have you back, Viv."
"It's good to be back." Jack bowed his head over an open case file and leaned back in his chair.
"What's the latest on the Brighton case?"
"We'll have an update by noon," Viv sighed sadly, sitting down on the chair in front of his desk. "No matter how long you give yourself to recover, this job never gets any easier." The corner of Jack's mouth twitched.
"Well," he murmured. "The complimentary grays give a distinguished look, I might say." She ran her eyes over Jack's silver-threaded hair and snorted.
"Speak for yourself," she retorted before standing. "I'll have a new report on your desk by one, okay?"
"That's fine." Vivian nodded and turned to leave. "Take it easy today, Viv." She smiled appreciatively and left Jack to his coffee. He hadn't seen Sam or Martin and they both usually arrived at least a half-hour earlier than he did. Jack shuddered as a cold chill ran through him. It wasn't his problem. It wasn't his concern. It wasn't.
They still hadn't arrived an hour later when he made his way briskly down to the bullpen, lukewarm coffee still in hand. He looked around for a moment and then down at the two team members who sat around before him.
"Have any of you heard from Martin or Sam?" Jack asked, yawning and checking his watch. Danny shrugged.
"Last time I saw either of them was last night at the bar," he replied, checking his watch. "They seemed fine then…" The elevator door slid open, admitting a tall, well-dressed young man with a brown paper bag in one arm. He waved apologetically and sat the bag down on the table.
"Sorry I'm late," Martin greeted them with a nod. "I brought bagels." Vivian and Danny reached for the bag and extracted a variety of rolls and bagels and cream cheese, offering one to Jack. He declined, and took a swallow of coffee. Where was Sam?
"Right," he coughed, stirring himself into action. "New case. Two girls, one twelve and the other sixteen. Last seen around Central Park with a large dog, sort of exotic-looking. Their mother called the police yesterday afternoon about five because they didn't return home." He tossed a large tan file onto the table and put his coffee down.
Danny frowned. "Have we called friends, grandparents even?"
"The family just moved into New York three weeks ago," Vivian informed them, handing out profiles. "The girls are enrolled into a Catholic school down on East 68th Street, and the mother's working at the Met."
"What about the father?" Martin asked.
"Deceased, four years ago," Vivian said. There was silence for a moment before Jack cleared his throat.
"Alright, Danny and Vivian, I need you to go down to their home and get something out of the mother. It takes a lot of money to go to any of those schools; maybe there's something there," Jack said and Vivian stood up, tossing Danny the keys to her car. "Martin, there's only one school on East 68th Street that's Catholic: The Dominican Academy. Talk to the principal, friends, teachers…"
The stairwell door slammed open and through it stormed a highly disheveled, tear-streaked Samantha Spade. They all stared as she stumbled across the floor and sunk into a chair at her desk, not even bothering to remove her coat. Jack tore his eyes away from her and continued with Martin, although he knew he had lost his attention.
"Right, so I need information about what these girls are into, where they go after school, who they talk to. Got it?" Martin nodded, snapping his attention back to business and putting his coat back on. Jack waited for him to say something concerning the slumped over figure at the desk fifty or so feet away from them.
"Sorry for being late," was all he said before grabbing a bagel and crossing the distance from the bullpen to the elevator. What the hell? Jack stared down at his case file and considered a whirlwind of things in a second's time. Should he ignore it, and just return to his office? Or should he ask her what was wrong? Go to her? Do something? Do nothing?
Jack shook his head and took a pumpernickel bagel with plain cream cheese and walked straight to his office, stopping as if by chance beside Sam's desk area. Her head was buried in her arms and her blonde hair stuck out at odd angles. Jack put his case file under his arm and leaned on the wall of her cubical.
"Bagel?"
She glanced up with puffy red eyes overflowing with tears which he had seen only once before. Jack's attention flew to the swollen red mark rising around her left eye. Sam realized where he was staring and quickly looked down.
"Don't start, Jack," she murmured in a broken voice. Jack's mouth gaped wordlessly.
"Did he hit you?" He hissed, eyes boring into hers fiercely. "Sam, I swear to god, if he hit you—" Sam threw her hands on her desk with a loud sob.
"No, Jack, he did not hit me. I fell because I slipped on the ice from my ice tray and bruised my left eye, so let your goddamn sense of chivalry at ease."
She glared at him for a few moments more before standing up and throwing her coat onto her chair. He watched her without saying anything for a second before setting the bagel down on her desk and placing her copy of the case file down with it.
"I'm in my office if you need…" To talk to me, he began to say, but the words froze on his lips. "…anything." Jack retreated back to his office and left the door slightly ajar.
After
a moment he fell into his chair and ran his hand through his hair,
sighing deeply. Get to work. Do something. And for an hour and half
that was what he did. He conquered a small mountain of paper work
and reviewed the case files for both the Brighton case and the new
Romero case with the two girls. Jack stared at their pictures
dismally and thought of his daughters. He glanced at his watch, and
then his calendar and remembered Hanna had a ballet recital today.
Maria sent him a picture of her in her leotard and tights a few weeks
earlier. Her whole tiny body, laced in pink and white ribbon, seemed
to glow with pride.
His cell phone buzzed in his pocket.
Vivian. The family moved from Boston a few months ago because of a
first class rehab center in New York which maintained a level of
discretion for its elite patients. She'd received threats from
poorer junkies who thought she was buying her way out of the
addiction, angry that they were sunk so low on the social ladder that
nothing separated them from hell. He thanked her and sent them to
the rehab center, feeling a familiar surge of purpose as the case
took a swift good turn.
Jack stretched and stood to get a cup of coffee, glancing outside his office as the old coffee maker perked sleepily beside him. It was relatively quiet for a Monday. Usually about this time a concerned relative, parent, friend, or guardian would drag themselves frantically into his office and beg for his help. Usually about this time he would send distraught relatives, parents, friends, or guardians into the waiting rooms and promise to do all he could to help them. However, today the whole floor, though buzzing with activity, seemed to be enveloped in a haze that not even coffee could clear.
Finally, his gaze touched on Samantha's hunched form, now whispering tersely into a telephone. What the hell was going on? He couldn't remember her being so disturbed. She glanced up and their eyes locked. Her face flushed in embarrassment, and she turned away. Jack swallowed hard and closed his eyes. Slowly, the detachment was taking place. Slowly, he began to force himself to separate himself from her.
