12
Aligned Design
Chapter 1
"I don't see how that would even matter." Detective Alex Eames watched her partner speak into the phone. She watched the fingers of his right hand punctuate the point he was trying to make, or understand.
"No. I don't think it does." She could see his frustration begin to rise.
"Look, I don't want to do this over the phone." It's pretty early on a Monday for this kind of frustration, she thought.
"We'll talk about it later. Bye." Detective Bobby Goren hung up and then wiped his face with both hands, put both hands flat on the desk and looked over at her. "You want some coffee?"
"Yeah, thanks. Want me to get it?" She offered.
"No. I'll do it." He stood, reached for her cup, turned and walked toward the coffee room.
I wonder who he was talking to.
Gleason hung up the phone. He would not give her an answer. She tried to explain to Bobby that she would not be home until later that night; that he should go ahead and get dinner without her. She was going to stay and work on her book at the office for a few hours.
He didn't want her to stay; said it wasn't safe. She tried to explain that she would lock herself in her office; that she would call security to walk her to her car afterward.
He would not see her side. Then wait alone at home, she said to herself. She needed to start working in her office. She needed to be away from him; he was suffocating her. Let him wait alone.
"Thanks," Eames said as he handed her the cup. "Everything ok?" she asked, taking a sip.
Bobby glanced at his partner and answered, "We need to schedule those interviews. Do you want to try to get these done today? Let's just go do them and save some time." He spoke more to himself than Eames.
Bobby had been back to work only ten days following his six-week involuntary leave. Well, it had turned out to be a combination of sick leave and suspension. His left hand had healed sufficiently, from the slamming he gave it in the men's room at the hospital after the shooting. He knew he was fortunate there was no permanent damage to his knuckles; he had needed minimal physical therapy. He had survived the food poisoning he had received from eating the hospital food. He had recovered from the attack by Clive Donohue.
He was up to date on the shooting range, his scores steadily improving. He was finished with his anger management classes. His post-trauma counseling was nearly complete. In addition, he had the love of his life. All should be well then, it would seem. Not so much, actually.
Eames watched him. "Let's get the information points in order for each person and then we can head out. Why don't we talk with the gallery owner first?"
Bobby nodded, sighed and flipped open his portfolio.
"Dr. Wintermantle? Dean Boyer would like to see you before your next class," the student assistant said, standing in Gleason's office door.
"Thanks, Lisa." Gleason looked at the clock in the corner of her laptop. She'd better go now. She picked up her steno, pen and keys. She locked her office door behind her and walked to the executive offices.
"You've been awfully quiet. Everything ok?" Eames asked her partner. They were on their way to speak with the gallery owner who had reported a lost shipment of six paintings. Major Case was involved because the painter of those six pieces was found murdered two nights before the insurance claim had been made. The death of the artist significantly increased the value of the paintings.
Bobby said nothing for a moment and then offered, "It's just hard getting back into the routine, that's all." No, something else is going on, Eames said to herself.
"How is Gleason feeling? She's back teaching, right?"
Bobby ignored her.
Ooookay, Eames thought. Trouble in paradise?
Dr. Gleason Wintermantle walked slowly back to her office after meeting with the Dean. No kidding, she said to herself. Huh. She unlocked her office door then turned and shut it. She looked out the narrow window from her office onto the lawn stretching to Selman Drive. Belzberg Hall was a nondescript 1960's era building on the campus of Brookbine University.
She hugged her arms around herself and shuddered. I'm going to lose this job, she thought. My job, what I do.
It was her fifth day back to work and she had just come from a meeting with Dean Boyer. She was expecting a "be sure and don't over-do-it" talk. Instead, their conversation concerned the lack of enrollment her classes were facing for the coming semester. Her program in Ancient Languages would probably not continue. She would continue, part time, through next semester and then first summer session to see the few students in the major complete their programs. Then there would be no more.
The Board of Regents had questioned the funding allocation for so few students. They had decided that the return from tuition and fees did not warrant a continuation of the program. In defense of the program, Dean Boyer had pointed out to the Regents that Brookbine University was one of only two in the East to offer the specialized major.
Nevertheless, the dean had relayed the data the Regents had cited -- the recent shooting in Belzberg Hall, Wintermantle's absence following her injuries, and the advent of technology in the field as reasons for the decline. Come the end of July, Gleason would be unemployed.
Dean Boyer had reassured Gleason that her pedagogy, professionalism and expertise were in no way in question; her evaluations were exemplary. The dean promised the utmost help in helping Gleason secure a position at another university. Dean Boyer seemed truly sorry.
Gleason did not yet have tenure and was, therefore, dispensable. What will I do? This is all I know.
To be honest, after the surprise had worn off, she didn't even feel that badly about her new reality. She had changed jobs enough, for reasons far more bizarre than this, to be bothered too much. Nevertheless, in the past, she had been free to move on, move away. Just go. Find somewhere else. This time it was different. This time there was Bobby.
"So, you are saying that you didn't know the paintings had been lost? Is that what you are saying?" Bobby was standing, pacing in the small gallery office. He was examining everything, touching pieces of art, getting close to canvases, breathing on it all. The owner sat next to Alex at a small table, watching the big detective.
"Well, well . . . I, the, no, I didn't know the paintings were lost. I called the delivery company that afternoon to ask an approximate delivery date and time," the owner said, shifting on the small chair. "Uh, can you not touch that?"
He continued, "The shipping company said the paintings should have been here Tuesday afternoon. Listen, can you not breathe on that canvas? Step back a little, ok?" The owner stood to make his point to Bobby.
Bobby turned around and put up both hands to show he would comply and took a step back.
"Mr. Canvettelli, had you met the artist before selling the pieces?" Eames continued.
The owner kept his eye on Bobby and answered, "Uh, no, no. I purchased the art through a broker in St. Louis. I knew of Peignoir's work, of course, but I'd never met him." Canvettelli watched Bobby wander to a stack of canvases leaning on the floor against the wall. Bobby began to flick the canvases forward against his knee.
"Look, I wish you would not do that, please. Those are recent acquisitions waiting for hanging. Please do not touch anything. Are we done here? I think I am done. Please leave." Canvettelli walked to the office door and opened it. He stood beside the open door gesturing for the two detectives to leave.
"Uh, one more question," Bobby began, "how much did you insure the paintings for? Market value or did you inflate knowing the price would more than double when the artist died?"
The owner glared at Bobby, "Get out. I'm not answering any more questions without my lawyer. Now get out."
Bobby snapped. In two steps, he was up in Canvettelli's face, backing him up against the office door. "We'll leave when we're done, not when you decide we're done. Understand? Now, I have some more questions. Sit down and get ready to answer them."
"Goren! Knock it off!" Eames shouted. She stepped to him and grabbed his sleeve. "Bobby! Stop!"
Bobby suddenly realized what he was doing and stepped away from the gallery owner. He turned and looked at Eames, saw the shock and bewilderment on her face and looked back at Canvettelli. He looked at the floor, turned and strode through the gallery to the front door.
Eames reached for Bobby's portfolio on the small table, flipped it shut, picked it up and said to the owner, "We'll be in touch again."
Gleason made two phone calls. The second was a message left on Brandon's office phone. She needed to speak to her graduate student soon. Then she walked to the reception area in front of the faculty offices. "Lisa, do you happen to have Brandon's cell phone number?
Bobby paced on the sidewalk beside the car, waiting for Eames to come and unlock it. He looked at the ground, hands stuffed in his pockets. A quick glance up and he saw her approach. She was pissed.
"Are you out of your mind?" She tossed his portfolio to him and he caught it with a near fumble. "What the hell was that back there? Do you want the department to be sued? Are you not satisfied with everything that has already happened?" Eames was so mad.
"Bobby, that man did nothing but cooperate. He did not provoke you. He did nothing to warrant your attack. What is going on with you? For Christ's sake, he is a witness, not a suspect."
Bobby listened to Eames go on. He knew she was right. He didn't remember loosing it; he couldn't say what made him go after the owner. The sound of Eames' voice had brought him back, made him realize what he was doing. What is wrong with me, he asked himself.
Eames continued, "Look, you need to talk to someone. I'm not sure you are done with therapy. Let's head back and talk with –,"
"Shut the fuck up, will you! Just shut the fuck up!" he screamed at her. He threw down his portfolio, took a giant step away and threw up his hands above his shoulders. He was faced away from her and breathing hard. He slowly dropped his arms, his shoulders fell; he turned and looked at Eames and did not recognize the look on her face. She was afraid of him.
"Yes, sir. . . I understand. . . As soon as they return. . . Yes, I will." Captain Jim Deakins returned the receiver and sighed. What is going on, he wondered. I don't need this. Damn you, Goren. What's going on with him?
Deakins kept an eye out, watching for his top pair to return. He needed to get their take on what had happened at the gallery. Upstairs was retaining counsel for the harassment and assault case that was coming together from the gallery owner against the department. Jesus, Deakins thought.
Bobby and Eames rode in silence. Bobby leaned against the passenger door, right thumb under his chin, fingers bent covering his upper lip. His cell phone rang and he ignored it. Without realizing it, he flexed the fingers of his left hand, as though they hurt.
Alex had never seen Bobby go off like that. Sure, he had intimidated many suspects, goaded them into telling what they wouldn't have told another investigator. His ability to intimidate was one of the many attributes that made him so good.
But, he had never, ever, lost it with her. Not once. She certainly never gave him a reason to. Eames knew about Bobby's temper, everyone did. She had seen it plenty of times. She knew he had been ordered into anger management classes to try to deal with it.
Apparently, the classes didn't work. He seemed much more angry, much quicker to lose it than before. She needed to talk with Deakins. She was afraid to say anything to Bobby. She had never been afraid of him. Never. And she did not like it now.
Deakins saw the pair return. He let them settle in and then walked to Eames' desk, "Alex, in my office, now."
Bobby looked up, "Do you want me to tell you what happened?"
"I'll talk to you later."
Eames walked to her boss's office; Deakins followed her and shut the door. She took a seat and looked up the captain as he leaned on the edge of his desk, facing her.
"Ok, what happened?" he asked her.
"He just went off on the guy. The owner was being cooperative and had asked Bobby to stop touching some of the art. Then the owner decided he was done, and asked us to leave. Bobby asked about the value of the paintings and the guy wanted a lawyer, and Bobby went nuts."
"Did Goren touch him?"
"No, no, just got up in his face. I yelled for him to stop and grabbed his sleeve. He stopped and looked like he didn't know what had happened. He left the gallery and I met him outside."
"How was he?"
"Well, I asked if he was nuts, why'd he do that, that kind of thing. He was pacing like he does and then I guess I went on too long and he screamed at me. Told me to shut up."
"Did he touch you?"
"No, no, he just flew off, screaming for me to shut the f- up."
Deakins stood up and rubbed the back of his neck.
"Have you talked with Gleason? How are things at home?"
"I haven't talked with Gleason in two weeks. Honestly, I don't think things are good at home. I asked about her this morning and he ignored me.
"Alex, what do you think is going on with him?"
Eames thought a moment and then said, "I don't think his post trauma counseling worked. Either that or the counselor wasn't a good match. Sometimes that happens. I'm no shrink, but I think Bobby needs to talk with someone or he's going to end up hurting someone. I think maybe he and Gleason need couple's counseling."
Deakins looked at Eames. Thank God, she and Bobby reconciled, he thought. No one else would put up with him.
"Thanks, Alex."
That evening, Bobby sat in his chair in the dark. His mind ran with wild thoughts. Gleason, his anger, back to Gleason. He heard her key in the door and he stood.
"Hi," he said, stepping to her. He reached for and took her wrap from her shoulders, she handed him her bag and he hung both in the coat closet by the door.
"Thanks," she said. "Why are you sitting in the dark?" She turned on the lamp beside his chair.
"I got us Chinese. Are you hungry? I made a pot of tea." Bobby moved into the kitchen, flipped on the light over the sink, and began to take plates from the cupboard.
"I'm not hungry. You go ahead and eat. You shouldn't have waited. I told you I was going to be late."
He turned and asked, "Did you eat on campus?"
"No, you go on."
"Gleason, you have to eat, you are still too thin. Come on; eat with me. We can talk. Honey, talk with me." They locked eyes but said nothing. He poured her a cup of tea and handed it to her. He watched her take a sip and close her eyes in pleasure. He still made the best tea.
His heart warmed seeing her enjoy the drink. He turned and prepared her plate with food from the four containers. He set it in the microwave and watched her sit. He filled his plate and the oven dinged. He used a tea towel to remove her plate. He set it in front of her and handed her chopsticks. "Go on, eat while it's hot."
She looked at her plate. Bobby had given her little bits, thinking she'd eat a little bit if there were a little bit to eat, knowing she would eat nothing if the plate were full.
"Did you go to the gym today?" she asked.
"Yeah and the range. I wanted to get something done while you were working."
"How did you do at the range?"
"Keep getting better; that's all that matters."
The oven dinged and he removed the plate with the same tea towel. He sat across from her and opened his chopsticks.
"Do you want something to drink?" she asked. "A beer?"
"I'll get it," and he prepared to stand.
"Bobby, let me get it for you. You can't do everything." Gleason rose and moved to the fridge. She removed a beer and then took the opener from a drawer. She tried to flip off the cap. She set the bottle on the counter and tried again. She was still so weak. She tried again, and Bobby rose, turned and took the tool from her hand.
He turned her toward himself and embraced her. She was stiff in his arms. He had not held her like this since before the shooting. He was shocked at how thin she felt. He held her gently, molding her into himself. God, it felt so good to hold her. He felt her relax and move into him. Her arms came up and held his back, her head against his chest, under his chin. He felt himself rise slightly. Oh, this is good. I miss this, he thought. I miss this.
Gleason broke the embrace with, "You should eat while it's hot." He let her go and he uncapped his beer. He filled her cup with a tilt of the teapot.
"Do you think he's psychotic?" Sledge asked Eames, "You know, his mom and all?"
"No, he's not mentally ill. He's just at his wit's end, I think. I don't think the counseling worked like everyone thought it would," she answered.
"So what happened, exactly?" Sledge and Eames were having dinner at "Dickie's," a coffee shop in the East Village. They sat at the next to last booth, Eames faced the wall and Sledge faced the door. Eames related the day's events. Bobby's explosion at the gallery, his outburst at her on the street, her conversation with Deakins and the odd conversation she and Bobby had had when she returned to her desk.
"What did he say when you came back?" Sledge asked.
"He watched me the whole way from Deakins' office to my desk. He had that scared, little boy look he sometimes gets. He looked at me like I was going to tell him everything."
"Did you?"
"No. I couldn't. It was none of his business. I just went back to work. Then he said he wanted to talk to me in the conference room. So I followed him. He shut the door and it was like a stream of consciousness monologue.
"He went on and on about how everything felt so out of control. How he had gotten everything back after having almost lost everything. I suppose he was talking about Gleason and his hand and the attack and all. He went on how he had it all back, but he had nothing. Nothing was the same. Everything was different. He said he didn't know what to do to make things like they were before.
"It was really kind of pathetic. He looked so sad. So powerless. Edward, he looked frightened."
Sledge looked at Eames. She still loved Goren; he knew that. He knew she probably always would. But now, he saw that she loved him like a brother. Eames knew that Goren loved Gleason and would never love her in that way. Goren couldn't, he and Alex were too different. She loved Goren as her partner and friend. Sledge didn't care one way or another. He loved Alex. They were growing together. She would love him; he would make it easy for her to love him. It would just take time. And he had all the time in the world.
"Goren's a lucky man."
Alex looked up questioningly.
"He is," Sledge continued. "He's lucky to have you as a partner. As a friend." Sledge wasn't sure whether he should ask, but he did. "Do you regret withdrawing your request for transfer or the request for change of partner?"
Alex thought a moment, looked at the man across from her, "I regret nothing. I'm the lucky one. I have you beside me and Bobby behind me."
"I'm not saying that," Bobby told her, leaning on the edge of the sink, with his back to Gleason. Why won't she see it? He had just finished cleaning up from dinner.
Gleason didn't respond. She sat at the kitchen table, right foot on the seat under her; left leg bent at the knee, heel on the edge of the seat. She looked away, toward the living room.
Bobby had suggested she give up her apartment on Murdock. She was pretty much living with him full time now, he said. But Gleason didn't want to do that. In fact, after learning she would be unemployed at the end of July, she'd thought of moving back to her place. Gleason had not told Bobby that the Dean said her program would not continue at Brookbine.
She told him she wanted to keep her place. That if he wanted her to give it up, it was his way of controlling her, removing her independence, making her dependent upon him.
"You know that's not what I'm saying." He heard such sadness in his own voice. Why is she thinking this way? It had been so good just six weeks ago. So much had happened, but why is she thinking like this? Why can't it be like before? He felt a panic rise. Breathe, breathe.
He turned and looked at her. He stepped behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. "Gleason," he started.
She shrugged off his hands, unfolded herself from the seat, stood and said, "Never mind." She walked down the hall to his bedroom, closed the door and lay on the bed.
Jesus Christ! He felt the anger rush through him like a flood. He turned and threw the tea towel into the sink and stormed down the hall to the closed bedroom door. Stop, he told himself. Just stop. He stood with both hands on the edges of the jamb. He leaned and breathed through his nose. Don't go in there like this, he told himself. Wait, wait.
When he was ready, he opened the door and saw her on the bed, on her side, her back to him. He crossed to her and sat on the edge, "Honey?" He put his right hand on her hip. She didn't respond. "Gleason. Please."
"It won't make any difference," she finally said.
Again, that flare of anger. He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe deeply, slowly. He kicked off his shoes and stretched out beside her, up on his left elbow. He rolled her towards him, onto her back.
Bobby looked down at her and she looked up at him. He brushed a whiff of hair from her forehead. He watched her pulse throb slowly under her skin in that magical place at the turn of her neck. Her bradycardia had never improved sufficiently and now she was on medication to keep her heart beating at a viable pace.
He watched that spot, wanting to put his open mouth on it, lick it, suck it. He did nothing.
She was still so pale, still weak. She tired easily and napped often. Neither Gleason nor Bobby was back one hundred percent. Both had lost weight in their illnesses. Bobby was back at the gym, rebuilding what he had lost. He was massing a lot of muscle. Gleason, however, looked wan, thin.
They hadn't made love for more than six weeks. They had both been too ill. Now they were mostly well and it still hadn't happened. He bent to kiss her and she stiffened. He felt it and stopped. "What?"
She closed her eyes and turned her head to the left, away from him. Another flare went off in his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut tight and pressed them with the fingers of his right hand. He rolled off the bed, slipped on his shoes. He took his money-clip, cell phone and keys from the dresser and walked back down the hall. He slipped on his jacket and closed the door behind him.
Gleason heard the apartment door shut. She lay for another minute, thinking. Then stood, went to the closet they shared and withdrew the carpetbag.
Bobby stopped at Nixon's, a pub he and Lewis had gone to several times. He ordered a Weihenstephanuer beer and bummed a cigarette from the guy next to him. What the hell is wrong with me, he thought. He knew his anger was barely under check. Every little thing sent him into the blaze. Everything. His anger management classes taught him to recognize when his anger rose. Taught him what to do to control it; taught him how to avoid responding to situations with anger. But it didn't teach him how to keep it from flaring.
His counseling sessions had helped him understand that the shooting at Belzberg was not his fault, not Eames' fault, not Sledge's fault, no one's fault. He understood that he had not caused Gleason's shooting. He knew that he had not put himself in a dangerous position when Clive had abducted him. He now understood completely that nothing was his fault. But things were his fault. It was his fault things were not like they were before.
In spite of all the awfulness, things had turned out well. Elliott, the student stalker, had shot himself, removing himself from their lives. Clive, Gleason's crazy former lover, had been removed as well, thanks to Eames' crack shot marksmanship. Gleason had recovered, his hand had recovered, his aim was improving, and he had finished his mandated classes and counseling. Things were good, right?
Then why the hell was he so angry all the fucking time? Why hadn't he and Gleason made love yet? Why was she being so reticent, so quick to argue? What was wrong with his life? It should be good now. His life sucked.
Bobby finished his beer and the cigarette and decided to go back home. Talk it out with Gleason. Make it work.
He opened his apartment door, tossed his jacket on the back of the kitchen chair and went straight to the bedroom. Gleason wasn't there. Her green throw wasn't at the foot of the bed. A cold panic rose instead of the angry blaze. He opened the closet and the carpetbag was gone. He stepped to the dresser to pull open her drawer and saw the gold and onyx chain lying on the dresser top.
"A round trip ticket to Chicago, please."
"The next flight leaves in an hour and forty-five minutes. When will you be returning?"
Gleason thought a moment, "May I keep the return open?"
Bobby called her cell. No answer. She had disabled the message function after the go
around with Clive. He called her apartment. No answer. Where is she? Goddamn it!
He got his jacket, keys and headed for her apartment.
Her silver Volvo sat where she usually parked. He got out of his vehicle, crossed to hers, and put his hand on the bonnet. Cold. She's been here a while. He used his key to enter the lobby, checked her mailbox – empty – and took the lift to the fifth floor. He let himself into 5D.
The apartment was dark. It was obvious no one had been there in weeks. Oh, no, no, no, he thought. She's run.