A/N: Okay, I really, really shouldn't be doing this. Need to finish Concrete Jungle, and the newly started Song of a White Dragon, and a half dozen other fics. But this one just jumped up and bit me while I was at the gym today. I couldn't stop myself. Please don't hate me.
Blaine's awakened at three in the morning by the shrill scream of his cell phone. He blinks blearily for a moment, trying to brush aside the cobwebs of sleep. He thinks, at first, that it might be his alarm clock – but that's not right, the alarm clock plays soothing ocean sounds in the morning and – the phone goes off again, insistent and angry.
It's enough to pull him fully awake, and he leans over to grab it. It's probably just Sebastian – the guy just doesn't take no for an answer, and for some reason seems unable to grasp the concept that Blaine is not down for booty calls with an ex. He remembers, at the very last moment, to check the caller id before hanging up and going back to sleep. It's an unlisted number. Curious, Blaine clicks it on and raises it to his ear.
"'lo?" he manages to growl out, his voice husky and unused. He clears his throat and tries again. "Hello?"
"Blaine Anderson?"
The voice is familiar, but he can't quite place it. "Speaking."
"Hey, man, it's Mike Chang." Blaine furrows his brow. He knows Mike, of course – everyone knows Mike, he's one of the friendliest guys on the force. Whenever he's called into the D.A.'s office to report on a case he brings a box of donuts and stays to chat with all the attorneys. Their receptionist, Tina, is more than a little in love with him. Blaine's never worked a case with him – Mike's one of the upper level detectives, whereas he is still stuck with juveniles and D.V., four years into the job – but they're friendly enough. He wonders why Mike would be calling him at three in the morning.
"What can I do for you?" Blaine asks, as polite as can be. His mother would be so proud, he thinks drolly.
"We got a big case down here, 332 Lex," Mike says, his tone brusque and sharp. "Jonesy wants someone from the D.A.'s office down here as soon as possible. We've got definite arson, probable murder."
Blaine frowns. He just barely stops himself from asking why he's being called. He is on-call tonight, but he's never, in four years, actually been called. All the officers know who works what beat, and they're more likely to just call the attorney who will end up prosecuting the case than the lawyer on-call. The Lexington area is in Santana's district, and she's always eager to get her hands on big-time cases. He finds it hard to believe that Mike hadn't called her, first.
"I can be down there in twenty," Blaine says. That's cutting it close – it's a fifteen minute drive to the nicer area of Arlington, and he has to throw on a suit. Still, there's a rushing feeling in his head, that if he doesn't grab this case someone else will. This could be his chance – the first break of getting out of the wifebeaters and vindictive baby mamas to prosecuting real criminals, to really cleaning up the streets. Mike grunts an assent and hangs up.
For once, Blaine doesn't agonize over what to wear. He just grabs his suit from the day before, discarded over a dressing room chair. He doesn't do his hair, just throws some gel into it and runs his hands through it, preying that he doesn't look like some kind of mad scientist as he grabs his car keys and runs out the door. He glances at the clock, and realizes that he'll have to speed to make it there in twenty. How funny would it be, he muses, if he got pulled over by a cop en route to a crime scene.
It's not hard to find the house, even in the dark, with barely there streetlamps for guidance. What looks like two dozen people are milling in the middle of the road, kept back by bright yellow police tape and exhausted looking firemen. Blaine can spot the flashing red and blue sirens of at least police cars, including the charger, and two firetrucks. The house itself is still smoldering, though the fire is out. Blaine considers honking his horn to make his way through the throng of onlookers, but settles for just parking on the side of the road and pressing his way through.
He's busy trying to catch sight of Mike Chang when a hand grabs his sleeve. He turns his head, surprised to see a short, pretty blond girl. "Excuse me," she says, her voice surprisingly throaty for someone so petite. "Are you Blaine Anderson?"
"Y-yes," Blaine says, surprised to be noticed. "How did you -
The girl smiles sweetly.
"It's my business to know," she says. "A little early for the D.A.'s office to be looking into an innocent fire, isn't it?"
"I"
"Shame about Mr. Hummel, though," the girl continues. "Are you looking to charge someone with this? Was it murder, or an accident? Any suspects?"
"Excuse me," Blaine says, shouldering her aside as politely as possible and climbing over the crime tape. He doesn't know who the girl is, though she speaks with the practiced ease of a journalist. It's disconcerting that she knows more about what's going on than he does. He glances around, seeing a number of officers, but none that he recognizes. He pulls out his phone to call Chang when he hears a familiar voice.
"Do not take them into custody. In fact, specifically state that you are not taking them into custody. Make sure there are two officers present at all times – smart ones, no idiots. I don't want this case bungled because of some fuck-up from the police department."
Blaine walks around the charger. He should be surprised to see Santana here – after all, it's unheard of to call two attorneys for a single crime. He's not terribly surprised, however – Santana is one of the hotshots in the office, an up-and-comer. Even if she hadn't gotten Chang's call, she probably would have shown up anyway – a magicial prosecutor's sixth sense that he just doesn't possess.
She's clearly surprised to see him, though, full dark eyebrows rising nearly to her hairline. She frowns at him, and Blaine realizes, once again without any surprise, that she has full make-up on. Unlike him, she's wearing a different outfit from yesterday, perfectly ironed. Her hair is pulled back into a severe, no-nonsense bun, and she's wearing one of her pairs of man-killing, six inch stilettos. She looks the part.
"Blanderson," she greets him, popping a piece of gum loudly in his face. "What are you doing here?"
"I called him."
Blaine is saved from answering when Mike Chang walks around the corner. Unlike Santana, he doesn't look fresh and awake – there are deep bags under his eyes, and he looks about ready to fall asleep on his feet. He's on day patrol right now. Blaine knows, because just yesterday they'd gone out for drinks after work. He wonders why the young detective has also, clearly been roused from sleep for the arson.
Santana rolls her eyes. "God, Chang, when I told you to call someone, I meant someone competent. Wes, or Smythe. Hell, even Schuester. What the fuck made you decide to call Anderson?"
"He's on the one on-duty tonight," Chang says. He offers a weary smile to Blaine, who returns it uncertainly. Santana sighs.
"Dios mio," she mutters, casting her eyes heavenward. "Well, gotta work with what I'm given. Listen, Blanderson, I need you to ride back to the stationhouse with Jonesy. They're trying to bring in Hummel's son – the one who didn't somehow manage to burn his face off. If they can find the wife they'll bring her in, too. I want them interrogated, all taped. Make sure that they are told that they can leave, make sure they follow procedure, yadda yadda. Do not arraign them tonight, unless someone's a flight risk. This is the big one, Anderson. Don't fuck up tonight and you might get to second chair a real trial."
Blaine just nods his head. He still doesn't know what's going on – something to do with Congressman Hummel, obviously, and questioning families. He knows criminal procedure, though, knows what Santana wants done.
"Are the family members suspects?" he asks. Santana actually groans this time.
"God, you are green, aren't you? Family is always a suspect, Blanderson." She turns and snaps her fingers. A large black woman walks over, a broad smile on her face.
"Sup, Satan?" she asks. Even Santana can't keep her angry mask on.
"Jonesy, this is Blanderson. He's gonna ride with you back to the precinct to question the family. If they don't come in, go ahead and detour to their places. You'll have to find the moron in the hospital."
"Aw, c'mon, Satan, I don't need an escort," the woman groans. "I know how to do my job."
"I know," Santana says. "But we can not fuck this up. I trust you, but not every goon who works for you."
The detective considers, and then shrugs. "Fair enough." She sticks out a hand toward Blaine. "Hey, handsome. Looks like you and me are working the graveyard shift tonight. My name's Mercedes Jones."
"Blaine Anderson," he says, shaking her hand. He vaguely remembers her from the office – she's usually partnered up with Mike Chang, but where he visits the male attorneys, she's known for gossiping with the women. Mercedes grins, and pulls her keys out of her pocket.
"I'm driving," she says. "I've got the Charger."
"Damn, girl, you been driving that thing all week," Santana whistles appreciatively. "I thought you guys are supposed to trade off."
"Over my damn body," Mercedes snorts. "I worked my ass off for these keys, and I'm keeping them. Come on, cutie, you're riding with me."
Blaine briefly considers protesting about leaving his own car, but instead hands off his keys to a grateful Mike Chang, who'd clearly been worried about being stranded. Blaine has to hurry a little to keep up with Mercedes, who whoops a little when she reaches the Charger and climbs inside. Blaine can't help but smile a little – it really is an amazing car.
Mercedes is literally cooing to it as she pulls away from the house. Blaine glances back critically. It's had to tell in the dark – he'd really wanted to be able to explore a little. He's never been on a crime scene, not since his first orientation at the office, anyway. He's still not entirely certain that they're investigating a crime. There's no doubt that there was a fire – a portion of the roof on the stately colonial has fallen in, windows are busted out, and there are still tendrils of smoke threading up to block out the stars. But it doesn't look catastrophic – the fire never spread to the nearby houses, and the lower level of the Hummel home actually looks untouched.
"So. . ."
Mercedes glances at him out the corner of her eye. "Oh, white boy don't know what's going on!" she exclaims in clear delight. Blaine blushes a little, glad that the darkness covers the red tinge of his skin.
"I just pulled in about five minutes ago," he confesses. He doesn't add that only an hour before that he'd been sound asleep, tucked away under an old afghan his grandmother had knit.
It turns out that Mercedes is more than glad to talk, and she happily fills him in on the way to the stationhouse. They'd gotten a call at about 1 a.m. about a fire at Congressman Hummel's house. The fire department and ambulances had gotten their first, the squad cars a little after. Because Hummel was a public figure, they'd brought more personnel than usual – but everyone still thought it was just an ordinary fire.
The fire had been concentrated on the second story, though, in the bedroom. After putting out the blaze, a quick look around had been enough to determine that there were no candles, or errant curling irons – no clues as to what had started the fire. There was, however, a slight odor of gasoline. Blaine gasps at that point in the story.
"So it's definitely arson, then?"
"Definitely," Mercedes agrees.
There had been two victims – Congressman Hummel, and his oldest son, Finn. Hummel had been dead by the time the firefighters managed to pull him out, but Finn had been rushed to the emergency room.
"Here's where it gets interesting," Mercedes says, her voice almost afire with some kind of sick fascination. Blaine just feels a little nauseous – the detective is clearly invigorated by all the details, but he almost wishes that he were back with his D.V. cases, where a backhanded slap was usually as bad as it got. "Finn's got a couple of cuts to his arm, and at least one to his chest – ambulance took him outta there before we found out anything else. And Hummel's en route to get an autopsy, obviously, but word is that he was stabbed, too."
"Murder," Blaine whispers.
"Murder, arson, attempt. . .who knows what else we'll find digging into this," Mercedes says. "Sylvester's gonna push for the death penalty on this one, and you better believe that if we get someone convicted, that sucker's headed straight to the chair."
"Any suspects?"
"Not yet," Mercedes admits. "Satan – er, Santana – will question the family, because it's what she does. But it's pretty obvious that the older boy was trying to get his dad out of the fire. The other son and the wife weren't at home. There's always motive in these cases, especially where there's life insurance, but I'm more interested in digging up a little dirt, first."
Blaine nods his head, agreeing. The Arlington P.D. is known for sometimes jumping to conclusions and unfortunately Sue Sylvester, the new district attorney, is usually willing to go along with them. Couple that with mandatory prosecution for certain crimes, and the number of nulle pros'ed cases has skyrocketed. He's glad to hear that one of the detectives on point for this is a little more cautious – especially where Congressman Hummel is concerned.
Mercedes puts on the radio for the last few miles of the drive, and Blaine sits back for a moment, trying to put the case together in his mind. He doesn't know a lot about Congressman Hummel – knows that he's one of the representatives from Ohio, originally ran on a platform of arts and the education and fiscal conservatism. In recent years he's spoken out in favor of gay rights, against capital punishment, for the environment, and in support of the military. It's possible that the arson was politically motivated, but Congressman Hummel is not the biggest bill-writer. He'll co-sponsor a bill, but he's just not the kind of guy who sits at an office and researches.
It probably was the family, he realizes with a sinking feeling. A large life insurance policy, guaranteed government pension for the widow, an inheritance for the sons. . .he's worked as a prosecutor long enough that he's seen the cases before. When big names die, affluent people, it's usually because of the family.
They pull in to the precinct office. Mercedes grins as she hops out of the car.
"What are you so happy about?" he can't help but ask.
"Oh, white boy, you don't even know," she says. "Didn't you hear the radio? They found the younger son, and they're bringing him in right now. This is when things get fun."