Detective Alexandra Eames usually didn't worry about her partner's physical safety. His mental health, sure. Whether he was eating and sleeping, often. That he would put himself between a gun and an innocent bystander once too often, on occasion. Eames rarely worried, though, that Bobby would pull some kind of daredevil stunt. His hobbies - books, cars, and collecting eccentric people as friends - were relatively sedentary. He was claustrophobic. After an experience they had on a tall building with a sociopath who didn't know fear, he was afraid of heights. Bobby would not be the one spending his weekends bungee jumping.
Eames considered it, then, to be very ironic that she was carrying a pile of file folders and a bag of Chinese takeout to her very injured partner. Maybe it wasn't so out of character. They had chased a suspect into an abandoned building and he had run up to the second floor. When Bobby had followed him out of the exterior door, he had assumed that he would end up on the fire escape, not on some scaffolding. Even if he had anticipated the scaffolding, he wouldn't have thought "Hmm. This might have rotted through." Unfortunately, it had rotted through, sending Bobby and the suspect tumbling to the ground a full story below. The suspect was still in traction in the Bellevue prison ward, although he had been wheeled into his arraignment in a tasteful cast. Bobby had broken his left arm, and the doctors suspected a small tear in a ligament in his right leg. He wouldn't be able to go back to active duty for two months.
Eames rang Bobby's bell. His voice on the security intercom sounded surprised to hear from her, but he buzzed her in. When he opened his door to her, he was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. He hadn't shaved recently. One of those new external pressure casts covered his right calf, and he had a blue fiberglass cast on his left arm.
"Hi, Eames." He eyed the bag she was carrying.
"Kung Pao," she said.
"Are you staying," he asked, trying to sound casual. When she nodded, he continued, "I'll get plates." He hobbled to the kitchen.
"Bobby, let me do that," she protested.
"No, it's okay. I'm finding I can do a lot more than I thought." He got down a couple of plates and some silverware and set them on his small dining table. He convinced her to sit down and start in on the eggrolls. Now he was eying the folders she had brought. "What are those," he asked, trying again to sound casual. He had been going crazy at home, and it had only been a few days. When she had brought him home from the hospital, Eames had gone to the grocery store for him, so he had some staples, but he was desperate for something to do, something to think about. His internet connection didn't seem to be working. Maybe Eames had brought him her latest case.
"So Jeffries got put on Cold Case Review."
"Wow," said Goren. "What did he do to deserve that?"
"Parked in the Captain's spot three times in one week. Anyway, he sent a couple over for you. Said they appeared to be just up your alley – hopeless to solve and downright weird."
"I'm touched," said Bobby dryly, although he really was a bit intrigued.
"They are really old," said Eames helping herself to another eggroll. How did she stay so skinny, Goren wondered. He helped himself to some of the chicken, and started eating, but his glance kept drifting back to the folders. "Go ahead, Bobby." Goren smiled broadly as he put down his plate and began rifling through the folders. There were three. Eames was right; they were old. One from 1957, one from 1962, and one from 1967. He looked at the old black and white crime scene photos.
"No digital photography," he murmured.
"No DNA, not much in the way of forensics either," said Eames, as she put rice on both of their plates.
"It would be good to have access to the databases."
"Just use your secure connection. The remote password is the same as the office password." Goren smiled sheepishly.
"My internet connection sort of gradually stopped working a couple of weeks ago," he began.
"Sort of gradually stopped? Did you pay your bill?" asked Eames. Goren nodded. Eames scooped up the last of her chicken. "You eat. I'll check it out." She put down her plate and headed over to Goren's computer. "Ah, a vintage Dell."
"If you're just going to make fun – ". Eames ignored him and began clicking and typing furiously.
"Bobby, here's your problem. You have 38 Windows updates waiting to be installed."
"Is that bad?"
Eames sighed.
"Microsoft Windows has a lot of bugs. They often discover problems after the fact, and then they create little software programs that fix them. Those are the updates. You were probably missing a couple of the security patches, and your ISP – internet service provider – software got confused. It's keeping you at the Microsoft site."
"Can you fix it?"
"I'm downloading the updates now. Then they'll install themselves, but it will take a while. When Microsoft tells you that you have updates waiting, you have to let them install."
"And that won't give me viruses?"
Eames smiled. Bobby was usually so efficient about everything, but he had his blind spots. She returned to the table, where he had at least eaten what was on his plate.
"Um. I think I have some butter pecan ice cream, " he said.
"That would be great."
They ate dessert, and laughed at Eames' stories about the week in the squadroom. Goren hadn't realized how isolated he'd felt at home. Eames got up to check the computer. She did dome more typing and clicking.
"Google is once again at your fingertips, Detective."
"Thanks, Eames," he said appreciatively. She went back to the table to pick up her purse. Goren felt a slight pang of disappointment.
"Well, thanks for dinner…and the files…and fixing my computer. My, uh, one woman cavalry."
Eames ruffled his hair and smiled.
"That's me." He hobbled over to open the door for her. He watched her walk down the hall, with a feeling that he would have recognized as wistfulness, if he had been willing to admit that to himself. As he returned to his dining table, he caught sight of the folders, his new project. He happily picked them up, and seating himself on the sofa, he began to read.
A/N The laid up detective solving a cold case it a plot device that has been used by many mystery writers, including Josephine Tey and Colin Dexter.