They're sitting in her car, on a stake out. At this point it's nearly three a.m., and they've been in her car since dark. He stares out the window, and then he looks over, at her.
"Jane, can I ask you something?"
"What's that, Frost?"
"It's something that's really been bothering me," he admits.
"Then ask," she tells him.
"How did you get the nickname, Vanilla?"
"Feel better, now?" she questions.
"No. You didn't answer me."
"But you got it off your chest, that has to be a relief."
"It would be a relief, if you would tell me how you got the nickname Vanilla."
Jane looks out the driver's side window. She squirms, in her seat. She looks every direction, but at him.
"I'm waiting," he reminds her, drumming his fingers on the dashboard.
"Not going to happen," she reveals.
"Why not?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Why not? How bad could it be?"
"No comment," she recuses herself.
"I'm just going to start guessing."
"You will never guess."
"If I do, will you tell me?"
"No," she shakes her head, and begins to nervously twirl her hair.
"Is it because you're so plain. Plain Jane, like vanilla."
"No," she shakes her head, and rolls her eyes.
"Because you're such a white girl?"
"No."
"Because you were a regular at an ice cream shop, where you never gave your name, so they only knew you by what you ordered?"
"No."
"Am I getting warmer?"
"No. You'll never guess."
"You're stripper name," he giggles.
"Ok, enough coffee, for you," she takes his cup from him.
He looks at her, and notices her cheeks are bright red. He realizes that he's struck a nerve.
"Jane?"
"How did your parents come up with the name Barry? I mean did they think that you would come out looking like a blueberry, or something."
"Don't change the subject," he warns.
"Don't press your luck," Jane counters.
"I don't see what the big deal is. I am your partner. I need to know what's up, if I'm going to have your back all the time. If you have any deep dark secrets, you should tell me now."
"Drop it, Frost."
"Were you a stripper in a past life, or something? Did someone mistake you for a stripper?"
"Hardly."
"Then what is the story behind the name? I'm sure that it can't be as bad as the story I'm picturing in my head, right now."
"I am sure that it's worse."
"Worse, how could it be worse?"
"Let me ask you something, have you ever been to my apartment?" she inquires.
"You know that I have."
"Have you ever seen any candles at my apartment?"
"No," he admits, "What does this have to do with candles."
"Have you ever known me to wear perfume?"
"On rare occasions. Usually the scent you wear is ode to sweat, and decaying corpse. It's a lovely smell," he jokes.
"There is a reason I don't."
"Which is what?"
"I don't want to talk about it," she grits her teeth.
"Does Korsak know?"
"No. He doesn't know. Nobody knows, and I would like to keep it that way."
He looks at her. She avoids looking at him. She stares at her nails, as if there is dirt under them.
"Just tell me."
"I hate the smell of vanilla."
"Traumatic experience?" he guesses, blindly.
"Very."
"Tell me about it."
"You couldn't pay me enough."
"Please," he begs.
She looks into his big brown, puppy dog eyes. She feels herself being pulled in.
"Frost, I don't think that it's a good idea."
"Why not?"
"Because you can't tell anyone."
"Why not?"
"Because I will kill you."
The smile on his face fades quickly, as he realizes just how serious she is. "I won't tell anyone," he promises.
"You will want to."
"I won't tell anyone, I swear."
"Frost, I can't trust you to keep that promise."
"You trust me with your life, but you don't trust me enough to keep the secret of how you got the nickname, Vanilla? Really?"
"It's not as simple as you think."
"Just tell me."
"You'll judge me."
"No, I won't. I never have," he replies, sincerely.
"You really expect me to believe that, with some of the situations that we've been in?"
"I respect you. You're a hell of a cop. I don't judge you. Just tell me how you got the name."
"Don't laugh."
"I won't laugh."
"If you laugh I'll shoot you with your own gun, and make it look like an accident."
"Fair enough. Just tell me."
"I had to come up with a nickname."
"For what purpose?"
"I am not going to answer that. Just listen."
"Ok," he nods, in agreement.
"I had to come up with a nickname. I was running out of time. At the last minute, my boyfriend at the time suggested it."
"Why is that such a secret?"
"You don't know the whole story."
"How bad can it be? Why would you keep it a secret."
"It was the last time that I saw him alive. That is all I care to say about it," she reveals.
His eyes widen. He stares at her, imploring her for further explanation. His eyes plead with her. She stares at him. He looks into her eyes, and sees something that she rarely allows him to see. Regret, and insecurity. He swallows hard, knowing that he should end it there, but he pushes her, instead.