DISCLAIMER: Dick Wolf, NBCUni and probably several other have rightful claim to most of these characters - not I. Detective Blake Jamison is however, an original character of mine.
A/N - All I'll say is that - It is not what it seems. Have no fear. A two chapter one shot.
Walk a Mile in my Shoes
Walk a mile in my shoes
just walk a mile in my shoes
Before you abuse, criticize and accuse
Then walk a mile in my shoes
"OK, let's check out this ... Charles Waxman and then we'll call it a night." Detective Robert Goren closed his notebook and glanced over at his partner, Detective Alex Eames.
"Sounds good to me," Eames agreed, then cut a sly glance across the front seat of the black SUV. "Got a hot date tonight, huh?"
"Just keep your eyes on the road, Detective." Bobby pointed through the windshield to emphasize his point, but there was amusement in his voice.
"Who is it? Detective Blake Jamison?" Alex grinned wickedly.
"'Who is it? Detective Blake Jamison?" Bobby mimicked, rolling his eyes. "Who else would it be?"
"Ah-ha! I knew you'd have to have a date, or you wouldn't want --"
"I never said I didn't," Bobby pointed out, voice rising in pitch. He was in a playful mood, though trying hard not to show it. It had been another long tedious day, in a long tedious week. Interviews had been frustratingly unproductive, witnesses uncooperative, and the captain was breathing fire down their necks. Both were in need of more than a little diversion.
Alex chuckled. She was enjoying being able to turn the tables on her partner - for years she'd had to suffer through Bobby's cross-examinations of her love life, not that there had been all that much to cross examine the last few years, but still it had been more than enough for her. Now that Bobby was seriously involved, or at least appeared to be, it gave Alex enormous pleasure to be the one dishing out the 'hard time' for a change. She did this only because she was incredibly fond of both Bobby, and Blake Jamison, a fellow detective in Major Case.
"Where are you taking her?"
Bobby threw visual daggers her way. "Will you leave it alone?"
"Aw, come on - how many times have I had to sit through your games of twenty questions?"
Bobby stared through the windshield and said nothing.
"So…. Tell me, detective…"
There was a very audible sigh. "Pastis."
"Oh ho, fancy! Tell me," she sneaked a peak at her reluctant partner, "you two thinking of … I mean you're not going to …"
Bobby turned an annoyed glare in Alex's direction. "If we were, you'd be the last to know."
"I was the last to know when you two started seeing each other – and I considered you both my friends and yet neither of you…" Alex sighed dramatically, "why should this time be any different?" Alex shot back, feigning injured pride.
"Look, let's just get this over with, and then you can drop me off and go do whatever it is that you want to do tonight." Bobby shot back at her.
Alex looked over, trying to suppress her laughter. Her partner was staring out the side window but obviously grinning.
Unwilling to relinquish the upper hand, Alex ventured, "If you want, I could pick you up at Blake's tomorrow morning..."
Bobby's head snapped around, eyes wide and threatening. "Look...! " he roared, but stopped when he saw his partner engulfed in silent laughter. He started to chuckle, shaking his head, then reached out to playfully wrap his big hands around her neck.
"Just paying you back," Alex chided, "for all those inquisitions you've put me through for years."
The laughter faded into a comfortable silence.
The SUV turned a corner and slowed. Still smiling, Alex leaned over the steering wheel, staring up at the houses they were passing. "What number was that again?"
"Four twenty-seven. Should be a block up on your side."
"Yeah. You know, one night we should, you know, double date."
"Uh-huh," Bobby agreed with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. "I don't think Blake and I frequent the some places you do."
"Oh, I see. You think you've cornered 'class' on this team, huh? Well, let me tell you --"
"Attention all units -- vicinity Howard and Fourth."
Banter forgotten, the detectives turned their undivided attention to the broadcast, Alex's eyes on the road, Bobby's on the radio itself.
"Two-eleven in progress -- one-one-four-nine Howard. Repeat - all units -- two-eleven in progress -- one-one-four-nine Howard, cross street Fourth. See the man. Units respond."
Alex had already stepped on the gas, visualizing the quickest route to Howard and Fourth. Bobby snagged the microphone.
"Detectives Eight-One -- will respond to that two-eleven - one-one-four-nine Howard."
Alex snapped on the siren as Bobby retrieved the gumball light from under the seat and slapped it on the roof. Traffic was light, and seconds later, the unmarked SUV turned onto Howard. Bobby had the door open and was almost out before the vehicle had slid to a squealing stop before a run-down corner deli.
A balding, red-faced, middle-aged man, wearing a once-white apron that barely concealed his ample paunch, hustled toward them. Bobby crossed to him, eyes quickly taking in the area and situation. "Did you call the police, Mr. -- ?"
"Brockton, Al Brockton. Yeah, yeah, it was me."
"OK, what happened?" Bobby's darting eyes settled on the obviously upset man as Alex joined them on the sidewalk.
The explanation came fast and furious. "Two kids, they couldn't have been no more than thirteen, fourteen at the most. They come in and tell me to empty the register. I told 'em to get lost, so one of 'em pulls a gun and fires a shot into the wall behind me." He paused for breath, and for the benefit of the crowd that suddenly materialized with the arrival of the cop car.
"And?" Alex prompted impatiently.
"And? And, I give 'em the money -- you think I'm nuts? I'm no hero."
"Good, good," Bobby said quickly. "The two kids, ah… what did they look like?"
"Never seen 'em before. The one with the gun he was short, skinny, about five-one or two, curly dark hair. The other kid was a little taller, blond. They were wearing blue jeans and t-shirts. That's all I can tell you."
"Which way did they go?"
"On foot, that way and around the corner," Brockton said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.
The familiar wail of a police siren grew louder.
Alex turned to Bobby. "You want to let patrol handle --?"
"They couldn't have gotten too far on foot yet." He turned back to the grocer. "Mr. Brockton, I want you to stay here. When the other units arrive, tell them what you told us, and tell them where we went."
"Sure, sure."
The detectives headed down the street at a slow trot in the direction indicated. This section of New York had yet to be 'gentrified' so it still consisted mostly of old abandoned warehouses and vacant lots, bordering on one of the poorer sections of town. Though it was undoubtedly a long shot, the possibility that the kids were still in the area was real enough. Though technically not the job of two Major Case detectives to chase down pre-teen robbery suspects, the two officers felt compelled to check it out, they were still two dedicated NYPD officers and knew that seconds could be all the difference between an arrest or not.
They flanked the open doorway of the first warehouse they came to, sidling up quietly. Alex had her Glock service pistol in hand; Bobby slipped his own from the holster on his left, hip seconds before stepping inside. Just across the threshold, they paused. Hearing nothing, they were satisfied it was safe to continue, Bobby gestured for Alex to take the second floor. She nodded, but as she moved away, a restraining hand reached out for her arm. Bobby met the questioning look evenly. "Be careful."
Alex smiled briefly and nodded again. "You too." She felt Bobby's eyes on her back as she climbed the stairs.
Balancing lightly on the balls of her feet, Alex moved swiftly and quietly from room to room. Most were empty, dark and musty, except for the debris that never made it out of the building or that the homeless had brought back into the building. There were scattered, torn newspapers, discarded mattresses and empty liquor bottles. There was also the occasional rat. the rest contained large wooden crates, also empty. It took little time to cover the floor, and, going from vacant room to vacant room, she began to relax. With each passing minute, the likelihood of the kids being in the area grew more and more remote.
She returned noiselessly to the first floor and moved to the rear exit. Pausing first to listen, she was just about to step out when the faint but distinct sound of footfalls caught her attention. She halted again, pressing back against the wall, straining to pinpoint the direction and location of the sounds. The steps grew louder, drawing nearer. They were not the steps of someone in a hurry. Maybe one of the kids was in here, and had heard her advancing on his hiding spot. Then, from outside the building she recognized the sound of running strides from the dirt and grass, moving away at a steady, easy pace.
She continued to breathe as quietly as she could from the relative safety of the shadows, gun at the ready, as the owner of the sneakers stepped into her field of vision and continued on. She caught a glimpse of blond hair and denim, and, after a split second of hesitancy, stepped through the doorway, dropping naturally into the learned and automatic shooting stance. "Police -- freeze!" she barked, and was gratified to see the command instantly obeyed.
"Turn around… slowly."
The blond youth held his stiff pose for a long moment. Then carefully, almost confidently, he turned to face her, an expression of innocence and open vulnerability on his handsome face. He shrugged questioningly, right hand extended palm up.
"Hey," he said quietly, with an unsure but engaging smile, "what's going on, man?"
Struck by the youthful good looks, the innocent, confused smile, Alex hesitated. Sighting down the barrel of her firearm, she aimed with deadly accuracy at the center of the young man's chest, she felt once more the wave of uncertainty she'd been experiencing with growing frequency. Ever since the last time she'd pulled her gun and sighted down its barrel. The time she came face-to-face with Bobby with his gun pointed at her.
Was this one of the young thieves they'd been chasing? Surely, they'd have left the area by now? Didn't the grocer say the dark-haired kid had the gun? These questions and others raced through Alex Eames's mind simultaneously, leaving her dazed and briefly disarmed.
Taken aback, dangerously transfixed, she began to lower her gun.
"Alex, look out! He's got a gun!"
Even as the familiar voice penetrated her concentration, she saw it. The left hand, held down and close to the leg, came up in a blur. The innocent look hardened as the barrel of the .45 leveled off and the trigger squeezed.
Simultaneously, realizing her tragic mistake, Alex brought her Glock pistol back up with equal speed, its own roar lost in the echo of the .45. As she felt and heard the deadly .45 slug sail harmlessly past, she watched her own bullet catch the boy in the stomach and drive him back several feet to land spread-eagled on the soft grass. Blood red quickly spreading and obscuring the white of the young man's tee-shirt.
Trembling, in stunned disbelief Alex lowered her gun once more. "I … I didn't think he had a gun," she said quietly. Seconds later, she turned to look for her partner, and froze.
All sound and movement ceased. She was aware of nothing but her own ragged breaths and the blood pounding in her ears. On ground that spun sickeningly beneath her feet, she took three unsteady steps before slowly dropping to her knees, the gun slipping unnoticed from numbed fingers. She shook her head slowly as a litany of denial poured forth. "No ... no ... no ... no..."
Before her was sprawled a brown topcoat-clad body face down in the dirt, head turned away. The left arm was doubled underneath, the right flung outward – his own unfired lay in the unmoving hand.
Choking down bile that burned her throat, Alex Eames reached out a shaking, reluctant hand to lay on her partner's back, terrified that it would confirm what she already knew to be true. As tears blurred her vision, she gently rolled the unresisting body over and into her arms. The unsupported head fell back.
Brown eyes, already beginning to glaze, stared vacantly skyward. Just above the V of the open shirt he wore, a deep dark spot was spreading across the front of the black tee-shirt. Detective Robert Goren was dead.
"No!!"