WOMAN OF INTEREST
By
Lacadiva
Rating: PG 13
Disclaimer: All right belong to Jonathan Nolan, Kilter Films, Bad Robot, CBS, et al.
Summary: Reese enlists Detective Carter's help on a stake out. So why is he requesting she wear a cocktail dress? Takes place before the Season One finale.
=POI=
Carter rubbed her tired, reddening eyes, feeling the oppression of time and the toll of far too much work upon her sleep-deprived body. Exhaustion was heavy in her bones, constricting and tightening the muscles of her neck and shoulders to the point of pain. She sipped the last of her cold, hours-old coffee and struggled in vain to stifle a yawn.
Her cell phone rang, the simple black burner phone given to her by Reese not long ago. She looked around the room, over her shoulder to make sure none of her police brethren were within earshot (in particular the less than trustworthy Fusco), then rose to find a quiet corner.
"What now, John?" She heard the testiness of her own voice and winced. Carter hadn't meant to communicate her irritation, but it was important that Reese know that enough was enough. All she wanted to do was go home.
"Rough day, Detective?"
"You should know," she snapped. "You've been keeping me hopping all day. Just trying to tie up a few loose ends so I can get the heck out of here and go sleep. What do you want now? And is it going to keep me here longer, because if it is…"
"I need you to do one more thing for me."
Carter rubbed the back of her stiffening neck, anger building.
"What now?"
"I'm on a stake out. I'd like you to join me."
Please, tell me he didn't just say he wants me to join him on a stake out!
"Reese, I've been here all day…"
Silence.
She hated the silence.
"I'm exhausted," she ventured further, hoping for a response.
Nothing.
"Fine," she said finally, giving up and giving in. "Who are we watching?"
"I'll tell you all about it when I pick you up."
"Is there any way," she said, freely allowing the exhaustion in her voice to be more evident, hoping to make her point, "any possible way I could talk you out of needing me to do this tonight?"
She counted the seconds until John answered, hoping against hope that whatever the situation was, success would not depend upon her presence. Or that she could change his mind. All she could think of was the hell of spending the evening sitting in a dark car waiting for something or nothing to happen, doing nothing and thinking about less than that. When she could be slipping into a warm tub….eating ice cream for dinner…ignoring the ringing of the phone or the voice in her head that reminded her that someone might need her tonight, that a stranger's life was hanging in the balance.
"Go home…" said John.
A smile of relief played on her lips.
"…and I'll pick you up from there in an hour."
The smile died before it could reach the point of joy.
"Fine," she said, resolved to another late night spent working. "Anything else?"
"Yes," said John. "Do you have a cocktail dress?"
"A cocktail dress? For what?"
The call was disengaged.
=POI=
The possible reasons for John's somewhat unusual request ran from the ridiculous to the quite mundane. Joss Carter arrived home and seriously considered turning off the all the lights, putting the chain on the door and not coming out.
But a life was at stake.
So she fought back her desire toward rebellion and prepared for the evening. After a quick shower, she chose a black slightly off the shoulder number with satin trim along the bodice and the hem line, which sat just above her knees. It wasn't a difficult choice – it was simply the one and only cocktail dress she owned. Opportunities for such occasions that called for a slinky dress were few and far between. There were cotton, linen and satin blouses and shirts, slacks and vests and blazers galore, in every style, cut and available dark shade - all appropriate day wear for a woman in her position in law enforcement.
"I may have to go shopping," she mumbled to herself as she fumbled with the zipper.
Joss arranged her hair into a soft up-do with a fancy comb her son had given her two days ago for her birthday, and finger-combed her bangs into a soft frame around her face. She kept her makeup understated, letting the red lip gloss she chose be the colorful focal point of her facial palette. Next, Carter sipped her feet into high black shiny pumps that could be easily kicked off should he need arise to give chase to some slippery suspect. Lastly, the detective added her accessories: shimmering tear drop earrings, a simple gold chain bracelet, a quick spritz of her favorite perfume, and a small black holster which she strapped to her thigh, then slipped a legally registered Watha PPK comfortably in it.
"Dang, girl…" she said to herself, pleased as she took in the whole gestalt before the long mirror.
Just then, she heard a car engine as it pulled up and softly idled in park in front of her building
John had arrived exactly on time, not a minute before or a minute after. He gave a short tap on the horn to alert her to his presence. She took her time, deliberately and rebelliously wanting to have just a few more minutes to herself before giving up her evening for the sake of the next potential victim. She knew deep down there were some things more important than her personal comfort, but she still wanted her night.
She dropped her police badge and hand cuffs into her tiny satin clutch, tossed a black wrap across her shoulders to ward off the evening chill, and walked out.
=POI=
He was standing at the bottom of the stoop outside her building waiting for her.
She actually saw him smile. It was a real smile, not that usual smirk he reserved for most other occasions.
"You fix up nice," he said.
"Don't look so surprised," she said flippantly as she descended the front steps of her building. "Where are we going? What's the job? Cocktail party for the rich and shameless? Embassy shindig?"
"I'll tell you about it on the way," he said, as escorted her to the car.
He, too, wore black, as was the norm for him. But tonight he wore a nice silk tie with his crisp, perfect white shirt. His hair looked freshly combed and she could tell his skin was still tender from recently being shaved. He breezed past her to open the passenger side door for her, and she smelled his aftershave; it tickled her nostrils and made her stomach involuntarily clench and flutter. His aroma was woodsy, natural, and slightly wild. So…him.
"You fix up nice yourself," she said as she slipped into the soft leather seat.
She caught him glancing quickly at her legs, at the thin black strap of the holster along her slightly exposed thigh. She felt flushed, embarrassed and uniquely un-cop-like.
Vulnerable.
She castigated herself for allowing her thoughts to wander into such an unsettling neighborhood and focused on the oblique task at hand.
They drove in prickly silence, and after an agonizingly long five minutes Carter looked left at John, watching him drive for a beat or two before finding her voice.
"So what's the job? Who are we watching? Wall Street maverick? Ambassador? Politician? Broadway star?"
"I'll explain it all when we get where we're going, Detective."
"You said you'd explain it on the way. Why can't you tell me now?"
"It's…complicated."
"What's complicated about it? Is somebody in trouble or not? Or is your little friend playing stupid human tricks on us? Because if that's the case…"
"Detective…Joss…do you trust me?"
"No!"
That came out a lot faster than she would have preferred. She smiled a crooked smile.
"I wouldn't be here if I didn't trust you, John. You know that."
"Keep trusting me," he said, eyes glued to the night dusted road.
End of discussion. They drove in silence the rest of the way to their destination.
=POI=
It was a restaurant.
A restaurant. Upscale. Over-priced menu. All gilt and gold and cloth napkins, butter sculptures, too many forks to choose from and crystalline water glasses that made prismatic colors dance on the white linen covered tables.
She was sitting with him at a table in the back, where they could both see the door and everyone coming in and out of the place.
He was smiling…or grimacing (sometimes they looked quite the same to her) and staring at her.
"What?" she said, demanding some form of explanation for his silence. He'd been that way since he very gentlemanly removed her wrap and clearly stared for a beat at her shoulders. She chalked it up to spending too much time in suits and too little time around civilian men.
"Keep your eye on the entrance," he said, and signaled a Waiter to attend their table.
She watched as he directed, giving the couples and individuals entering and exiting her undivided, purely analytical attention. Nothing seemed unusual or untoward. Just affluent, sometimes desperate looking individuals (desperate for acceptance and attention) coming and going. She heard John speak, order something, but paid it little heed, hoping to witness a hint of their reason for being there.
"I don't see what the problem is. Why don't you give me a little more to go on," she told Reese, feeling the earlier irritation resurfacing.
"Why don't you look at this instead."
John reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small black box. There was a tiny gold ribbon tied in a perfect bow on top.
Carter's eyes narrowed. "What's this?"
"Open it."
She reached for it, eyes on John, searching his stoic face for a clue. She wasn't getting anything there.
"John…"
"I owe you an apology."
"I'll settle for an explanation."
The Waiter returned with a bottle of wine and two large glasses. He poured a bit for John, who tasted it and gave his tacit approval with a nod. The Waiter then poured a glass for Joss and replenished John's glass before leaving.
Joss picked it up and gave it a sniff, recognizing the bouquet as a more than what she'd be willing to pay for a bottle of wine.
John gestured to the black gift box in her hand. With one raised eyebrow, Carter pulled the gold ribbon until it gave and fell flat on the table, then opened the box.
Inside, resting on a bed of blood red velvet was a tiny gold cross on an ultra thin gold chain.
"What's…why?"
"Finch mentioned it was your birthday a few days ago. Happy birthday."
Joss shook her head. "You didn't have to resort to lying to get me out."
"I didn't lie. We here to watch someone. I thought we'd kill two birds with one stone."
"Way to make a girl feel special," Carter said. She instantly regretted it when she saw John's minute smile fade.
"Really, it's nice," she said, "but I shouldn't accept this."
"Why not?"
"Because…I don't know. It looks expensive."
"Put it on."
There would be no arguing. She pulled the delicate chain from the box and held it around her neck. John rose from his seat and stood behind her. He fastened the tiny hook with deft fingers, then bent to whisper to her.
"There's a tracker inside the cross," he said, his lips close to her right ear. "If anything ever happens to you, I'll be able to find you within twenty miles."
"I appreciate the thought," she said, watching him move back to his seat, "but if anything ever happened to me, I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."
"I don't doubt that," John said, taking a sip of wine. "Still, I'd prefer it if you'd refrain from taking that off."
"Fine," she said, and took a sip from her own glass. "I'll keep it on. Thank you."
He smiled again; this time, he looked away.
"What?"
"I was going to say, it looks good on you. You look…good."
She reached for the pendant and touched it – something to focus on, anything to focus on, other than his odd and wonderful scrutiny.
"So…" she said, hoping some pleasant, innocuous subject for conversation would present itself during her not so subtle stall. "What's good here?"
"I wouldn't know," Johns said. "I've never eaten here before."
"Not the kind of place I normally frequent either. So I guess you can't recommend anything…"
John said nothing, his attention pulled to the entrance, his face changed back to the purposeful stare he reserved for watching those in danger.
"Our subject just walked in."
Carter turned to see who had entered the restaurant. She recognized the subject as Clive Rowe, hot shot divorce attorney and occasional talk show guest. Usually the people in danger were a little less high-profile.
"I bet there's at least a dozen individuals who wouldn't mind seeing him dead," Carter observed, keeping her eyes on him as he made his way to a reserved table where he sat strangely alone.
"What's our next move, Reese?"
"Hang tight," he advised. "Look normal. Engage in conversation. Act like you're having a nice time with me. Smile."
She did, not because he told her to, but because the idea seemed for the moment ridiculous. And, regardless of the situation, she was having a nice time with him.
=POI=
While Rowe consumed glass after glass of whiskey on ice, Reese and Carter enjoyed steaks served rare and medium rare accordingly. And while they kept a close eye on their target, they also managed to fake small talk until it became true conversation.
"Seriously," said Carter, "How many times have you been shot?"
Reese shook his head. "Would you believe me if I told you I lost count?"
"That is insane!"
"Let's see…I was shot in China…by Mark Snow…"
"I am so sorry."
"Let it go. I have. Where was I? Oh…the armored car…"
"I swear you've got nine lives."
"I'm sure I don't have that many left."
Both stopped. Carter was momentarily paralyzed by the implication. Would the next bullet with John Reese's name on it claim him? She nearly shuddered at the thought.
"Let's change the subject," she offered. Before she could come up with a newer, less morbid topic, Clive Rowe was on his feet and moving toward the men's room.
John stood, straightening his tie, intent on following the subject.
"Stay here."
"John…"
"If anyone follows me, hold them off for a bit."
She saw John walk away, wondering if this could be that dreaded night…
Carter watched for anyone who might follow John into the men's room.
=POI=
Once in the men's room, John went immediately to the sink to wash his hands. He took his time. When Clive Rowe joined him the next sink, neither man looked at or acknowledged the other. Rowe shook his hands dry, ignoring both the air dryer and the paper towels. He spent a few seconds checking out his unusually thick hair and straightening his tie before exiting the men's room.
John quickly engaged his ear bud to place a call to Finch.
"John! I've been trying to call you all evening. Why didn't you answer?"
"I was a little busy, Finch."
"Doing what?"
"I have a life, you know."
"Of course you do. But a new number's come in. I need you…"
"Not now," Reese whispered, hoping Finch didn't hear him.
"I'm sorry? Did you say not now?"
Reese did not wish to answer him. But he knew he had to come clean with Finch. He'd find out eventually. No doubt the machine would tell him.
"I'll be there in an hour. I'm…having dinner. With Joss."
"With Detective Carter? Am I to understand that you two are on a 'date'?"
John wanted to deny it, just to avoid whatever Finch was about to sling his way.
"Do I have to remind you…"
"No, Harold, you don't. It's not a date. It's dinner. And I don't owe you any explanation."
"Mr. Reese…"
"I'll see you in an hour."
Reese quickly disengaged the call and headed back for his table.
Detective Carter wasn't there.
John quickly pulled a wad of cash from his wallet, tossed it on the table and ran for the door.
=POI=
He didn't have to go far before he heard her voice.
She was shouting – quite authoritatively – for someone to raise his hands. John ran, following Joss's voice until he found the dark alley where she stood barefoot – her shoes and clutch abandoned near the lip of the alley – in an isosceles stance, her Watha turned frighteningly on a young blond thug who was too scared to run or resist. Standing off to the side, in the shadows, was Clive Rowe, who was also shaking like a leaf, and suddenly very sober.
"Detective…?" said John as he ventured closer.
"This little dirt bag tried to steal the guy's wallet."
As John got closer, Joss turned to him and whispered, "Looks like your friend was right again. Catastrophe averted."
"So it would appear," said John, exhaling a breath of relief.
=POI=
John disappeared while Joss reported back to police headquarters to process the young thief and take Clive Rowe's statement. He sat in his car and waited near the station – dangerously close. But he remained in the shadows, waiting patiently until the detective finished and wearily exited the building, barely able to walk in her ultra high heels.
He blinked his headlights twice. She stopped, warily eyeing him until he slowly pulled up close enough for her to see him.
"May I offer you a lift, detective?"
=POI=
Instead of home, he took her to an all night donut shop in the village, one that served half-way decent ice cream.
"I don't understand something," she said, absently licking the cold spoon. "Usually you guys are dead on about the danger people are in. Why was this one so sketchy, so uncertain? And why, if this guy was in danger of getting killed, was the thief only armed with a hand painted water pistol? He was in no danger."
"It's not an exact science, Detective."
"I'm just saying…"
"I have a confession to make."
Carter stopped and put her spoon down.
"Go on."
John put wiped away an imaginary bit of ice cream from the corner of his mouth and looked away.
"It was your birthday two days ago."
"Three days now. It's one a.m."
"Clive Rowe was never on our…watch list. He just happened to walk into the restaurant and I…"
"You pretended he was the reason we were there? So what was the real reason?"
"It was your birthday…three days ago."
Joss felt that weird clutch and flutter in her abdomen again. This time she also felt flush. She looked down at the old Formica table top.
"If you wanted to take me out, John…"
"Would you have come?" he asked quietly. "If I had asked?"
She stirred the remainder of her ice cream until it turned to soft custard, melting.
"We'll never know now," she said.
She stood. John reached out and grabbed her hand.
And instantly regretted it. Too much. Too fast. Too soon. He let her go.
"You still saved a guy," he said, hoping to make her feel better about it.
"Stupid coincidence. I'd like to go home now."
=POI=
The ride home was in discomforting silence. Carter kept her eyes on the road ahead, as did John. When he arrived her apartment, he pulled up but remained in the car. Carter reached for the door latch to get out, but something stopped her, held her back. She turned to look at John.
"Look, Reese…"
"Good night, Detective."
She smiled sardonically.
"What's with the cross?" she asked.
"It wasn't my idea. It was Finch's."
"I think you're lying."
"I guess we'll never know."
She still wasn't ready to leave.
"Next time, there better be some cake."
A tiny smile cracked through John's harsh mask.
"And I like chocolate frosting. I know, the white stuff's traditional, but I buck tradition every chance I get."
The smile widened just a touch.
"Next time you want to take a girl out to celebrate her birthday, just ask.
She opened the car door.
"And give me some advance notice. I might like to buy another dress."
John turned to her now.
"Detective…."
She stopped, waited for him.
"Happy belated birthday."
=POI=
Joss returned her dressed to her garment bag…let her hair down…put away her comb and jewelry…and crawled into bed. She reached up and touched the tiny gold cross at the base of her throat and wondered what this evening was truly about. Before she could successfully dissect all the events and process the results, she was asleep. Still touching the cross.
The End
This was my first POI story, and I hope to write more in the future. If you like it at all, and if it's on your heart, please comment in a review. Be kind. I'm new here. Thanks.