Summary: HR finally rears its ugly head and Fusco's loyalties are given their last, life-threatening examination. Carter is impatient with a seemingly indifferent John. Finch is struggling with past and present. The city unravels.
AN: All 'm gonna say is, pay attention to time stamps. I won't jump around too much, don't worry. Everyone loves Raym—er, reviews. Everyone loves reviews. Including me. Steak.
Chapter One: Early Bird Gets Nothing
August 17th, 2013. 2:14 pm, Maiden Lane
Tourists and suits on all sides. A man with slightly thinning, curly brown hair and a brow that never seemed to stop worrying expertly dodged the high concentration of people as he jogged down the sidewalk. The badge on his belt flashed in the sun; he might have just been a cop on duty, chasing a suspect or on his way to an active crime scene. People didn't notice the sweat on his brow, or care that there was a sense of irregular urgency in his step.
Detective Fusco mopped his forehead with a sleeve as he pulled out his cell phone a second time that hour. It was broad daylight.
"Good afternoon, detective. What can I do for you?"
Yes, a relieved voice wheezed in the detective's mind when he heard the calm, polite voice on the other end he never knew he'd come to rely on so much. The world was crazy these days. "Professor, you've got no idea how glad I am to hear your voice," he said, and meant it.
"I truly wish I could say the feeling is mutual, as we're extremely busy at the moment. Can this wait?"
'We', he said, so Fusco was now positive that Glasses and Wonderboy were mixed up in yet another one of their Robin Hood charades. In other words, whatever he said now didn't matter. At least with Finch, he got a chance to make his case. If it were Reese on the other end, 'busy' meant a quick five second countdown before the mysterious suited scorpion knight hung up on him. Fusco almost bowled over a middle-aged lady as weaved the crowd, and mumbled a quick apology without even slowing down.
"I'm sorry, detective?"
"Not you," Fusco responded hurriedly. "Look, I don't got much time. I think I'm in some pretty serious trouble and—"
"No, I mean I truly am sorry. I'm afraid that I've been having trouble with my equipment today. I'm unable to track your location."
They have pills for that, y'know, was the quip he would have returned with normally, but knowing what he did, Lionel decided that Finch was the last person he wanted to tease right now. "I'm at the corner of Maiden Lane and Water Street. Look, just tell me where Mr. Royal Pain is, would ya? I could meet him, maybe provide some backup—"
"Mr. Reese is in the middle of a delicate negotiation, detective. I'll try to—"
And the line went dead. "Hello?" Fusco looked at the screen and saw the call had definitely ended. Redialing did nothing; the line rang, but never went through. He pocketed his phone in dismay, just as a shooting pain stabbed through his left side. A cramp—obviously his punishment for the two doughnuts he ate for lunch.
He had to get to a secure location, out of the open, and try again. Maybe Carter this time. He wondered if she knew what he knew, and if he should tell her. If HR had connected him to 'it', then they'd definitely make the connection with her, too. Maybe if he mentioned that to the Bane of His Existence, tall, dark and gloomy would get off his reluctant high horse and come to her rescue. And if in the process, Lionel also happened to get his ass pulled out of the fire, all the better, right?
That was his best bet. Probably. Lionel grabbed his side in face-pinching pain and lurched forward, putting as much distance between himself and the jewelry shop as possible.
August 15th, 2013, 8:15 am, The Library (2 days prior)
Bear whimpered.
Finch looked up and gave the canine a sympathetic look before turning eyes back to the screen of his laptop. "I know, Bear. I'm sure he'll be here soon. We'll go for a walk to the park; I'm sure you'd like that."
The dog's head shot up and his ears twitched at the mention of 'walk'. If he could sense the mild frustration in Finch's voice, the prospect of fresh air, squirrels and other four-legged friends overrode Bear's sensitive constitution and replaced it with pure, dog-like elation. A second later, he was on his feet prancing eagerly towards his first master, who had just reached the top of the stairs.
"Good dog. Leggen," John's toneless voice greeted and ordered the dog back to his bed. John, still in his light coat, strode across the library. "Morning, Finch."
"Good morning, Mr. Reese. I don't suppose—"
John reached out and placed a warm, paper Starbucks cup on the desk next to Finch's laptop, paused a second to emphasize the act of courtesy, and then left to approach the mini-fridge with a weighed down plastic bag in hand. "You're welcome."
"I was going to say, I don't suppose you realize how late it is, which is of course absurd now that I think about it," Finch responded in stride, but rigidly opened the tab on what would undoubtedly be a very delicious latte. The barista at the local Starbucks had a semi-popular blog, in which she actively gossiped about her attraction to Mr. Reese, or as she described him, 'Tall Dark'n Hot'. Since she had no reason to believe Finch's latte was intended for another person, she naturally put extra effort into preparing it in an ongoing attempt to impress her latest crush.
Sometimes, local security surveillance and research had its unexpected perks.
"Had a run-in with some uncooperative gentlemen next door, that's all," his partner responded, having put away the day's lunch. He sat down in a swivel chair close to the table.
"With any luck, those were the same gentlemen who have been abhorrently misusing Mrs. Gibson's unprotected Wi-Fi. By the time I took charge and secured it with my own password, that poor woman had over six hundred dollars in data overages on her last two bills."
Finch was unperturbed and unaware of John's blank stare, until he happened to glance up from his work and notice the slight tugging of amusement on his partner's face. "Well, Mr. Reese, we each have our own methods of helping people," he pointed out. He glanced curiously from the latte to John again. "In any case, may I ask how you knew the coffee maker was broken?"
"That's because I borrowed a few parts from it to make that imitation explosive for Friday's number," John told him casually.
"Oh." Finch looked away, eyes fluttering back to his many screens. "I suppose visiting the local Radio Shack was out of the question."
"When the bomb has to look like it came out of Nazi controlled Germany, it is," said John, standing up. Bear sprang to his feet, tail wagging furiously as the tall man cross the room to grab the dog's leash of its hook. "Coming, Finch?"
"Of course. I just need to polish this entry data on our newest number," Finch's voice was back to being distracted, even a little tired. "Given who we're dealing with, I suspect it's best to be fully prepared before we get involved."
"I do enjoy a nice challenge," John responded, snapped the leash to their dog's collar and retreated down the stairs.
"Christopher Jersey. Son of recently deceased CEO of Sharktooth Industries, a giant of a corporation involved in the distribution of various seafood. He has the legal capability to claim a third of the company, but for some reason he's completely separated himself from the will and refuses to involve himself in his siblings' affairs."
"You say that as if it's unusual," John said, matching Finch's slower gait as they strolled down the park avenue. He'd already studied Jersey's dossier. "Twenty-two years old, barely out of school. Kid probably has all kinds of dreams, not to mention he just lost his father."
"Mother, actually," Finch corrected, to the point. "His father died of a heart attack six years ago. Allison Jersey ran the company for twelve years and passed away a week ago Saturday. Also heart attack."
"Interesting coincidence."
"Yes, it does seem that way, except Charles Jersey had been ill a long time. Chronic user of a tobacco pipe, apparently. Mrs. Jersey on the other hand, learned from her husband's mistakes and lived a healthier life than most Olympic athletes I know."
John gave him an appraising side-glance as Bear excitedly found a new lamp post to investigate. They stood still for a moment; the sky was overcast and there was more than just a breeze on their shoulders. John raised an eyebrow slightly, "You know a lot of Olympic athletes?"
"I've made donations. My point is, we should take into consideration that Christopher's mother's death wasn't a fluke of nature, and his life may be in danger due to his stake in a very profitable, multi-billion dollar industry."
"You know, times like these I'm really happy I wasn't born into a rich family. Seems people are always trying to kill you for your money."
"I'm sure I don't have to remind you that we have plenty of enemies of our own, and only a handful of them want to kill us for money."
"A man with no enemies is a man with no character," John pointed out, as they resumed their walk.
"Paul Newman, one of my all-time favourite philanthropists of the modern age. Mr. Reese, I assure you I am rather unsettled that you're learning about my tastes faster than I can unravel yours."
"That's because I have no taste, Finch. You know that."
August 15th, 2013, 8:27 am
There was a familiar murmur in the NYPD office. It was a drone of sound that included ringing phones, rustling papers, and a mixture of voices on all different levels of agitation, sounds that Joss Carter never realized she missed until recently. The paperwork she would never miss, but the atmosphere of fellow detectives putting their heart into their jobs, that special knowledge that cases were getting solved and lives were being improved, it sunk into your skin.
Old colleagues greeted her politely when she walked into her former workplace. Some of them thought different of her, but she didn't give a damn about what they thought. She knew who her friends were.
"Oh, heya there, Carter," said a voice thick with a true New York accent. Fusco just stepped out of the glass walled offices where his and her (former) desk were located. "Haven't seen ya around here in a while. You uh, bringin' some new guy in?"
"Transporting a witness to a sketch artist," she said, glancing over his shoulder at Fusco's newest partner. "And before you ask, no, I have not heard from our mutual friend. Though I'd bet my life savings that this whole World War II bomb scare thing could've been a lot worse if it weren't for him."
"Yeah, no kiddin'." His brow lifted, his eyes shifted, and though Carter had only been his partner for a short time compared to other kinds of partnerships, she recognized that look. Why she didn't try to stop him, she didn't know. Probably because she was beyond tired and ready to sink into a steaming hot bath.
"Listen, I know now's not a fantastic time, but there's somethin' we really need to talk about," he said, trying his best to sound casual but failing at his worst.
Carter couldn't believe her ears. "Fusco, I already told you-"
"It's not that. It's not," he interrupted quickly, stammering over the first word. Fusco was almost never shaken, not even when people started shooting at him. Faults aside, Carter knew him to be one of the best cops under any amount of pressure, so in spite of her fatigue-driven temper, his behaviour was getting through her shell.
"Alright," she said slowly, crossing her arms. "What's happening?"
"Y'know, forget I said anythin'. Both of us should probably get back to work or we'll jinx our good luck. A week without hearin' a word from those two—"
Murphy's Law prevailed in that moment, because Fusco's cell phone went off before he could finish his sentence. He closed his eyes and sighed—she didn't blame him. Given the incredibility of Reese and Finch's last vigilante escapade, she knew the chances of this one being even crazier were pretty high. "I'll let you answer that," she said, unable to resist a smirk. "Let me know if our mutual friend wants me to write some speeding tickets or something."
"Trade you in a heartbeat," he grumbled, as she strolled away.
She didn't see Fusco answer the phone, so she couldn't possibly have overheard the entire conversation. She did catch a snippet of his words, though. Fusco had faced away from the elevator, looking out a window and reluctantly answered his cell .
"Okay, what do you want? It's crazy down here, you guys have a sick sense of timing." Pause. "What? Who is this? Look, I don't got time for prank calls. Word of advice; you wanna prank call a cop, you better do it like a man. Feel free to call me when ya grow pair." Pause. "Geez, the things kids think of these days..."
TBC...