The Degree of Separation
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The murder of Omen Suicide hit way closer than Danny Messer thought.
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Post Oedipus Hex
…
Greg closed his eyes, taking a deep breath of sweet city air, letting the pungency of the diesel fumes and rotting garbage and cement and stale oxygen bring him back to his adolescence, when the world was a game, and he was batting a thousand. He loved New York, really. He loved the crisp bite of the autumn air on the eastern seaboard, the brisk breeze sweeping up off the Hudson. He hadn't always lived here, spending a considerable amount of his childhood in San Gabriel, California; but it was in this town that he learned how the world worked.
Opening his eyes, the looming presence of the precinct came into view. Archaic, yes, but well loved, as there were many criminals in the city; the building seemed to sigh from the traffic inside its walls. Greg smirked, trying not to think about just how many times he had trudged through the halls in this particular building, on the brink of losing everything he hadn't quite had the opportunity to achieve just yet. Fortunately, his brushes with NYPD Narcotics had been absolved in his younger years. How he managed to land a job in law enforcement, he'd never know. Greg cleared his throat, and pushed aside his hesitancy, quickening his step up the front stoop of the precinct adjacent to the crime lab.
Greg Sanders paused at the receptionist's desk, quietly inquiring where he could find Detective Messer, shaking off the memories of cold interrogation rooms and ultimately empty treats. The plain woman behind it didn't look up right away, but merely pointed at a vacant, but well-used desk in the corner of the large room.
"Out in the field. He'll be back." She drew her gaze away from the computer screen and eyed him cautiously before watching a petite brunette make her way briskly by them, frowning over what he recognized as CODIS results. "Momentarily, I assume. Detective Monroe is back." She rolled her eyes, and offered him a cordial smile. "His desk is the one farthest over, on the left. Make yourself at home if you'd like."
"Yeah? Thanks." Greg left the receptionist, and navigated his way through the two dozen or so pairs of detective's desks in the room. He stifled a smile, shaking off the feeling that he was in an episode of NYPD Blue.
Or that he was seventeen again.
He watched who he assumed was Det. Monroe start to walk by Danny's desk and stop, pausing to jot down a note on a Post It, and press it to the edge of his computer screen. She sighed as she swept her gaze over the disheveled contents of the desktop, biting her lip and running a hand through her hair as she continued on, down the hall beyond and out of sight.
She was pretty. Danny probably hadn't called her back.
He slouched into the chair beside the desk, sobering when he remembered why he was in New York to begin with. He was determined not to let this be awkward. They were friends; had been for years. It was a rare occurrence for him to be in New York; Greg hadn't been back to the east coast since the last time they were busted. It was ironic that both of them had ended up in law enforcement. Even more so that Danny had made his career here, of all places.
The last time he was in this building, he was arguing his way down from a twenty-five year sentence. That was back when he and Danny had a methadone lab running in the apartment they shared when Greg wasn't away at Stanford, and Danny wasn't out on the road with whatever team he was swinging the bat for. It had been a challenge then, life was one big science project. God, they had been such science nerds. At that point, well-paid science nerds. Meth was a lucrative business, especially in New York.
The franchise at Stanford didn't do too poorly either, he remembered, smiling tersely.
Fortunately, it had also forced them to straighten out, and fast. He'd like to think it was his adorable personality and charming demeanor that got the charges dropped. It was definitely Danny and that smile that always made women's clothes fall off. They were so lucky a brand new female detective, straight out of the academy, had interrogated them.
He looked up at the sound of a familiar voice, smiling nostalgically as he saw his dear old friend round the corner, his attention caught by the receptionist. He looked over, and grinned broadly, making his way to his desk.
"Greg Sanders." The smile on his face stretched to the timbre of his voice, and Greg couldn't help but smile back, standing to embrace his friend.
"Danny Messer. Long time no see."
"I know, huh?" He motioned for Greg to sit, and he did, amused as Danny paused, catching sight of the Post-It on his monitor.
"You forget to call her back, Dan?" The other man smiled wistfully, shaking his head before pocketing the note.
"Nah, it's complicated." Danny flopped into his chair, throwing Greg a genuine, broad grin. "What brings you to New York?"
"Death in the family, actually." Greg pulled a photograph from his coat pocket, handing it to his friend. Danny shot him a confused expression, and Greg watched as the recognition came hard across his features.
Omen Suicide. Carensa Sanders. Oh, he was all sorts of brands of idiot.
He frowned, resting his elbow on his desk, running his hand through his hair.
"Listen, Greg-"
"My aunt wouldn't stop running her mouth about a smartass detective. The more she talked, the more I figured it was you."
"I can't believe I didn't make the connection." Danny handed the photo back, groaning inwardly as the case he had just wrapped got that much more complicated. "I'm sorry about your cousin, Greg. Really." Danny leaned over on his elbows, the closest thing to sincere compassion that a lifetime in Staten Island would allow. Greg nodded, sweeping his gaze over his old friend, choosing his words carefully.
"My aunt Helen called me when Carensa picked up and moved out, shrieking about her moving to the east coast." Greg ran a hand tiredly through his hair, and slouched in his seat a bit, a trace of a smile flashing across his features. "I was working a triple homicide, which doesn't exactly lend itself to amicable family conversations." Greg took a shaky breath, and Danny leaned back in his chair, pushing his glasses up on his nose, listening intently to his friend. Greg scuffed his shoe against the floor absently, continuing. "I assured her New York was perfectly safe. That she would be fine. She only needed to find herself, you know, that angsty teenage soul searching 'my life has no meaning' thing."
"There's crime in every city, Greg, we both know that."
"My cousin turned a bit wild." Greg tried to smile, glancing at the scattered contents of Danny's desk distractedly.
"Kettles and pots, man. The Suicide Girls are out there, yeah, but you and me woulda put 'em to shame ten years ago." Danny grinned, remembering the burn of the kineticism that hummed through his muscles and joints a decade and more ago. The bleak traces of grief that hung wearily on Greg's features flittered, and the beginnings of a soft smirk curved his lip.
Danny paused, leaning forward. "Let's go get a cuppa coffee, huh? You look like shit." Danny smiled kindly at his friend, and Greg nodded, standing up.
"You can spare the time?"
"Yeah. I was supposed to be home hours ago. They owe me a break." Danny stood, reaching over and pulling his jacket off the back of his chair, gesturing towards the front of the precinct, motioning for Greg to lead the way to the door. They had almost made it past the receptionist's desk when the slender woman seated behind it caught sight of Danny, a momentary pause in the muted clicking of her fingers on the keyboard as she glanced up.
"Detective Flack is looking for you, Detective Messer." Her sight returned to the screen before her, but she smirked sympathetically at Danny's exasperated expression. "Said it was urgent."
"Did he say which case?" Greg fought a grin as he heard the irritation in his friend's timbre.
"The t-shirt one- something about another body."
"Dammit." Danny tore his frames from his features, pinching the bridge of his nose in a mix of frustration, the inevitability of having to stand up his longtime friend, and the fresh crime scene on a stale crime.
"You chasin' a serial?" There was the faintest hint of what could have been a Brooklyn accent years ago when Greg spoke, and Danny nodded, wearily, responding quietly.
"Been ugly. And the guy knows about Louie. Jus' one more thing, y'know?"
"Raincheck. Gimme a call when you catch a break." Greg shrugged, offering his friend a compassionate smile. "Believe me, I understand." With a gruff nod, both men parted ways in a professional manner, Danny disappearing back into the bowels of the precinct, Greg trotting down the front steps and out into the city streets.
