BTSS 3.24: Just Like Anything
Disclaimer: I own nothing
A/N: This is not the fourth story, but we're getting closer. This is a Between the Stories Story.
"A man's wife has more power over him than the state has." -Ralph Waldo Emerson, Journals
May 22, 2017
"Marie," Rory Gilmore said, approaching her colleague's desk with a clipboard in hand. "There's a fire over on sixth and Broadway, I need you to go cover it."
"Sure," Marie said, pulling her shoulder length brown hair into a pony tail so she could get down to business. She gathered a few things from her desk and put them in her purse before heading out of the bustling newsroom of the New York Daily News.
Rory paused at her desk for a moment to take a sip of the coffee she'd abandoned earlier that day. "Ah man," she complained. "It's cold." She walked to the break room, handing another reporter a marked-up article with instructions to make cuts on her way. After she'd dumped the offending coffee in the sink and refilled her cup, she proceeded back out to the newsroom. "Julie, you used the same quote twice in here." She handed over a sheet of paper, indicating two highlighted lines.
The twenty-something girl looked down at her work. "The second time I rephrased it."
"It's repetitive. Pick one and cut the other. You also need to get rid of three fourths of your adjectives."
"I wanted you to feel like you were there."
"Oh, you took me there. But as titillating as it was, less is more." Rory didn't get to continue, as her cell phone started to vibrate from inside her pocket. She took it out to answer, "Kyle, are you on your way back yet?"
"No," he said in a pouty tone.
"What's the problem?"
"He won't talk to me."
"Who is he?" She handed out a few more articles and stopped to breathe, resting a hand at her waist.
"I think you know."
"You're in the middle of Manhattan and there are hundreds of cops in this city, you could be talking about anyone," she said. "I'm not a mind reader."
"It's that detective," he said. "The one you married. He won't tell me anything. And I've been nothing but patient and polite."
"You should know by now he doesn't respond to that. You have to show him who's boss." Rory clicked the mouse of her computer a few times, pulling up a schedule for the day.
"I kind of feel like he's the boss," Kyle said.
"He isn't. I am."
"Of me. This week."
"No, I'm the boss of him too," she argued. "Every day."
"I'm sure that comes in handy when you need him to pick up his dirty clothes and do the dishes at home."
"He does that stuff without being asked."
Kyle mused, "He's like the perfect man, isn't he?"
Rory gave her head a quick shake. "Don't move," she told him, ending the call and dialing another number.
"DuGrey," Tristan answered after a few rings.
Rory could hear other voices faintly in the background on his end. "Why won't you talk to Kyle?" she asked.
"Because I'm busy working and I don't have time to chat with the press."
"You answered just now."
"I thought you were calling as my wife—in which case it would be in my best interest to answer, and not as the stand-in editor of the metro section."
"Well I am. Although, I'm hoping the former has some sway." She continued, "I need you to give Kyle some information."
"I don't want to talk to Kyle," he complained. "He looks too eager today. I'd rather talk to you. You're prettier."
"You know I'm Jimmy today, which makes Kyle me. So pretend it's me."
There was a pause. "I'd rather not. There are things I do to you that I would not do to Kyle."
"Pretend it's me at work, not me at home."
"But I don't have to do what you tell me at work," he reminded her.
"Says you."
"Says my contract. I think you've let the authority go to your head, boss lady."
"If you don't talk to him now I'll just give him your cell phone number so he can try you later."
"You really shouldn't threaten the police," he deadpanned. "But even if you do share my number, I think Kyle is smart enough not to use it."
"Please give him a quick quote so he can get out of your way and back to the newsroom. I have too many stories to be written and not enough reporters to write them. I need him here." Coyly, she added, "You don't want Jimmy to get back and think I can't handle things when he's on vacation, do you?"
It was silent for a few beats while he thought about it. "You sure do drive a hard bargain, Doll Face," he drawled. "If it'll help you out, I guess I can cooperate. But I have to do my job first or I won't have anything to tell him."
"Fair enough," she said.
"Oh no!" a reporter a few desks down cried out. Rory glanced over. "I was almost finished when my computer crashed. Stupid old machines," he said helplessly.
"Did you save it?" she asked.
"I was going to when I finished."
Rory sighed heavily. "I have to go," she told her husband.
"Okay. I highly encourage you to bring some of this dominatrix attitude home tonight."
"Uh-huh, got to go," she said before she ended the call. She took a quick sip of her hot coffee before heading over to deal with the crises at hand.
NNNNNNN
Greg Jacobs watched two forensic specialists exit the small shop sitting at the end of a tree-lined residential street. Squad cars wrapped around the block, red lights flashing. Pods of uniformed police officers stood around talking within the boundaries of the crime scene. Warily, Greg noticed the lead detective ending a call on his cell before pocketing it.
"If you need something from the DA, then let me know and I'll get it," Jacobs called out impatiently.
Tristan DuGrey turned and looked confused for a second before smirking. He walked over to say, "You know you're a useless middleman to me. Have I told you that lately?"
"Not this week," Jacobs said dryly, shoving his hands in his pockets. "But it's only Monday."
"Who let you in?"
"I did," he answered. "And the uni with the roster added my name."
"Better question, why are you here?" DuGrey asked with only a hint of irritation in his voice as his eyes scanned the personnel who had congregated.
"I ran out of busy work," Jacobs said dryly. "Thought I'd drop by."
"But this is my crime scene, so you're just redundant here," DuGrey said as his partner, Detective Mark Stevenson, made his way over to them.
"Funny, that's what I think every time I prepare your cases for trial." Jacobs added, "I'm just hoping to be half the pain in the ass you are."
Stevenson remarked, "I doubt you'll manage. He sets the bar pretty high."
Changing the subject, DuGrey asked his partner, "Is the medical examiner finished yet?"
"Yeah," Stevenson answered. "She'll be out of the way in a minute." He glanced over at the yellow tape surrounding the parameter and jerked his head toward a young man wearing jeans and a green polo shirt. "I think your fanboy is trying to catch your eye."
Tristan shot the kid a look. "Damn it, Kyle." He addressed his colleagues, "I have to go tell him something or I'm going to get in trouble."
After he was out of earshot, Stevenson remarked, "I always feel better when it isn't the one he's married to. He tends to divulge less."
Thirty seconds later, the blonde detective was on his way back.
"I waited for that?" Kyle called to his back. "I'm telling."
"I'm not afraid of her," DuGrey answered over his shoulder.
When he'd rejoined them, Jacobs asked, "So what do we have today?"
"Blunt force trauma to the head," DuGrey answered. "Evidence strongly suggests there was a struggle. There's a lot of broken glass scattered all over the floor, and the shards have blood."
"Do we have a murder weapon?" Jacobs asked.
"We think so. We'll have a better idea after we run the—." DuGrey's eyes strayed to a spot beyond the crime scene tape and he did a quick double take. His face went blank before two creases formed between his brows.
Noticing the prolonged pause, Stevenson finished the sentence, "After we run the prints." He glanced in the direction DuGrey was focused on and turned back to ask, "Did you see a ghost?"
Jacobs looked over too, but only saw a few spectators—a couple joggers and a man who looked to be in his fifties with jet-black hair wearing jeans and a blazer over a button down shirt. When his eyes fell to the three men, DuGrey snapped his head back and blinked a few times. "What?"
"You look like you saw a ghost," Mark repeated. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, fine," DuGrey answered hastily. But it took him a few seconds before he continued.
When the detective fell silent, finished going over the evidence left at the scene and how they planned to proceed, Jacobs nodded at the building, where a covered body was being wheeled out on a gurney. "Can we go in?"
"Yeah," DuGrey answered, quickly glancing to his left again before heading toward the building.
NNNNNNN
Late that night, Tristan slowly reached the top of the stairs of his building. He walked down the hall and unlocked the apartment door. He was surprised to see Rory in the kitchen, lights ablaze. She was standing at the center island, surrounded by three baking sheets. She looked up from a roll of cookie dough she was slicing when he walked in.
"Hey," she greeted.
"Hi," he answered, just as tired as she sounded. "What are you still doing up?"
"I had to stay at work late—some reporters straggled in with their stories. So I thought I'd make cookies and wait for you to get home."
"Oh." He took one of the finished sugar cookies off one of the baking sheets and took a bite. It was on the crispy side.
"How is it?" she asked.
"Not bad," he answered. "But don't quit your day job. Mrs. Field's won't be calling."
She shot him a grim look. "Are you going to be able to get away for lunch tomorrow?"
He sighed and started to take off his suit jacket. His tie was already loose at his neck. He shook his head and took a seat on one of the barstools across from his wife. "I don't think so. We talked to a few witnesses today, and they gave us some names we'll be looking into."
"That's fine," Rory said as she placed the last two cookies on the baking sheet. "I probably won't be able to get away either."
"We could get breakfast Wednesday morning, if you can swing it."
"It'd have to be early," she said. "I have the staff meeting."
"I won't keep you long then."
She turned her eyes on him, suddenly accusatory. "Was that really all you could tell Kyle today?"
Tristan picked up another cookie. "I told him it was a homicide and an approximate time of death. That's two more facts he had than when he got there. Before that, young Kyle only knew the police were called to that address. It was valuable information, and in return, my cell phone number is safe for another day."
She took a full baking sheet to the hot oven, and before she could continue the conversation, he checked out her grey stretchy pants she had on with a t-shirt. He asked, "What're you wearing?"
"Yoga pants," she answered, returning to the island. "Maureen Dowd does yoga to help deal with the stress of being a journalist."
"Mm, and how's it working out for you?"
She blinked. "I like the pants."
He grinned lazily. "That's sounds about right. You could just be really cynical if you want to be more like Maureen Dowd." He stood up, having finished his second cookie. "I'm going to go take a shower."
"All right. I'll be up in a little while."
Tristan walked down the hallway, past the guest room and paused when he got to his desk. He thought about what had startled him at the crime scene earlier that day, and it wasn't the dead body. The sight of the familiar face had made his heart pound in confusion and anger. He tried not to think about it all afternoon—he had work to concentrate on. But now he had time to think, if not fully process what was happening. He opened a drawer of his desk and pulled out a few files. He didn't know what he had to look for, but he was going to find it.
He sat the files in a neat stack on the side of his desk, then continued to the staircase.
May 24, 2017
Rory snuggled into the warm cocoon of blankets in bed a couple days later. She turned over and peeked through narrowed lids to find the other side of the bed empty. With a frown, she lifted her head. She squinted over at the digital alarm clock on the nightstand. She had fifteen more minutes before the alarm would sound, but instead of taking advantage of the time in bed, she crawled out from under the covers and headed out of the room to investigate. As she descended the stairs, the aroma of coffee didn't greet her. Tristan usually started the brew when he got up in the morning.
When she reached the first floor, she only had to take a few steps to find her husband sitting at his desk, bent over several documents spread around him.
"What are you doing?" she asked, moving to stand right next to the desk.
He looked up at her and answered, "Just looking through some things." He rolled the chair back enough to allow her space to take a seat in his lap.
She obliged and asked, "Our bank statements?" She lifted a few pages to see what else was on the desk. "And tax returns? Are you looking for something in particular?"
"No," he said shortly, resting a warm hand on her thigh as his other hand returned to the sheet he'd been perusing.
Rory waited, hoping for more explanation, but did not receive any. She prodded, "You just randomly got up extra early to investigate yourself?"
He frowned slightly. "Why'd you say it like that?"
"Like what?'
"Investigate. Why that word choice?"
"I don't know. It's what we do. I was just using familiar terminology." She put her hand on his to stop him from turning to another page. "Hey, what's with you?"
He finally stopped what he was doing and looked back at her. He took his glasses off and sighed. "Fine, I'll tell you," he said. "But you should sit."
The side of her mouth curved. "I am sitting."
"I think I'm being followed."
She blinked. "What?"
Slowly, as though still thinking it through, he said, "I think my dad is having me followed."
She frowned and then opened her mouth to say something, but had to let it sink in before she could form words. "Why would you think that?"
"I saw my dad's PI a couple days ago."
"A couple days?" Rory asked incredulously. "And you're just now mentioning it?"
"I wasn't sure what to think of it at first, but I'll bet you anything he's following me."
"Tristan, do you have any idea how paranoid you sound right now?" She asked, "Are you even sure it was your dad's private investigator? When was the last time you saw him?"
He shrugged. "Years. But I know it was him."
"Just because he's in New York doesn't mean it's about you."
He gave her a withering stare. "It's about me."
"Why would your dad have you followed though?"
"I don't know why he does things. He probably wants to know if I'm in financial ruins." Before she could ask, he said, "Just think about it."
She raised a palm and lifted her shoulder. "I don't even know where to start thinking about it. It's crazy."
"If we're pressed for money, I'll have to go crawling back to him so he'll give me my trust fund. But that means I'll have to play by his rules."
"He has to know you're fine. We aren't in financial ruins," she said. "You cannot think your dad is out to get you, hoping you're a failure at life."
"You've never met him," he grumbled.
"And whose fault is that?"
"Mine, so you're welcome," Tristan said. "Trust me, he's probably waiting to hear about my life of excess. He'd love it if I couldn't live within my means."
"But you do—we do. There's nothing to dig up," Rory insisted. "He isn't going to find anything, and neither are you. Don't you remember what you told me when I first asked you to be my source?"
He looked at her, confusion evident. "I can't remember the details of a conversation from that long ago, I didn't write it down," he said. "Did you?"
"No. But I know what you said. You made it very clear I wouldn't find anything on you because you had nothing to hide. And beyond an unmentioned law degree, you were right. Has anything changed since then?"
He was silent for a couple beats before answering, "No."
"Then please stop worrying about this. I think you're overreacting. There's a perfectly good chance this is nothing."
He shook his head a little, looking back down to his desk.
She watched him for a minute, hoping he'd let this go, but knowing he'd probably persist. She put a hand on his shoulder for leverage and stood back up. "I'm going to go start some coffee—for the ride."
"Go on up, I'll make it," he told her.
She grimly surveyed him before heading up the stairs to get ready for the day.
NNNNNNN
"Okay," Rory said later, looking down at her opened day planner. "I'm probably going to get home relatively late the rest of this week. I never realize how much Jimmy does around the office until I have to deal with all his responsibilities—not that I ever thought he didn't work hard. I just only see snippets of all he does." She glanced at the line drawn through the days she would be fulfilling the duties of editor, and then looked back across the table to Tristan. "And I assume you'll be working late for another day or two."
He nodded and took a drink of coffee. "Yeah. We're still running background checks and talking to some people," he said. "And that's an official statement, so Kyle doesn't even have to leave the newsroom if you need him for something else." He picked up his fork to stab his last piece of sausage and dragged it through the syrup from his pancakes before he ate it.
"There isn't any more information you can give me?" she asked with her best pleading eyes. "It doesn't have to be on the record. I can work with a lead, if you just give me one." She closed her planner and stuck it in her purse.
"It isn't your story though, it's Kyle's," he reminded her. "And you shouldn't do his work for him. He won't learn."
"This is journalism. You take your leads from wherever you can get them," she said. "And he's learned plenty from me. I practically taught him everything he knows."
Tristan raised a brow in interest.
"Okay, maybe he learned some stuff in school. And from Jimmy. But I've tried to teach him everything I know. I take my job as mentor very seriously." She cradled her cup of coffee and took a sip.
"So you told him to do anything to get a source to talk?"
"Yup," she said. "Up to and including marriage." She checked her watch and put her cup down. "Time for me to get this meeting started. Are you sure you're going to be okay today?" she asked meaningfully. She stood, put on her jacket, and then her cross body messenger bag.
He nodded. "I'll be fine."
"Promise?"
He held out his pinky and smiled tightly.
She stepped over to his side and hooked her little finger with his and leaned over to give him a kiss. "All right. I'll see you when I see you," she said before heading out of the diner.
Unlike Rory, Tristan did not have a staff meeting to get to, and he was within walking distance from the precinct. Ordinarily, he'd go on over to get a head start on the day, especially when he was at the beginning of a new case. But today he did not. Instead, he scanned the diner, which only had a few other patrons sitting in booths before he took his cup over to the counter and had a seat, accepting a refill from the waitress and paying the bill.
After a few minutes, the bell above the door jingled and a man sat down on the next stool. When the waitress approached, he placed his breakfast order. He had a dark head of hair and was casually dressed. There was a gun tucked under his jacket, and Tristan didn't have to ask to know the man had his right to carry a concealed weapon.
Addressing Tristan amiably, he said, "It's been a long time, how've you been?"
Still looking forward, Tristan answered, "Fine up until now. I thought you might be lurking around." He casually drank some of his coffee.
"Hey now, I don't lurk," his father's PI, Lawrence, said. "I observe from a distance. But I don't need to tell you that."
"Nope."
"Congratulations are in order. I heard you got married."
"Heard? Right now I'd believe it if you were there," Tristan said sardonically. "Have you found anything good to report back to the boss?"
"No, not yet. But it's pretty early."
"I'll save you some time. You aren't going to find anything."
There was a pause, then, "Why do you think I'm here?"
"You're on the job. And I'm it."
The older man looked down at his napkin, then to Tristan. "But to what end?" he asked, in what Tristan took as confirmation of his suspicions. "You lead a fairly boring life."
"So you admit you're following me."
"Out in the open?" Lawrence asked rhetorically. "I'm here to investigate something, like usual. New York is just a change of scenery." He continued, "Come on Tristan, let's not be weird. I'm doing my job here. You know I don't have a problem with you."
"Your employer does. It's not acceptable for me to do the same thing as you."
"You really think he hasn't gotten over that by now?"
"He still hasn't gotten what he wants, so no, I don't think he has."
Lawrence mused, "What does Harrison want though, that is the question." He shook his head. "I'm not sure myself, these days."
"That's easy," Tristan said. "He wants to control me." When the waitress returned with the coffee pot and a cup for Lawrence, Tristan waved away the refill offer. "But I won't let him."
"Do you ever find it funny that two middlemen can't communicate without a middleman?"
"I laugh about it all the time," he said flatly before sliding off the barstool to stand. "I need to get to work."
Lawrence turned toward him. "I think your instincts are a little off, but mine might be too, lately. Maybe you can help me with something. Do you know anyone who wears Dolce & Gabanna's perfume for women?"
Tristan shrugged and shook his head. "No." But when he got to the door he paused and turned back. "Wait, yes. Mom."
Lawrence nodded once. "I thought so. " Then he shook his head. "This cannot be good."
"What, did she kill someone?"
"No. But give it time."
NNNNNNN
Later that evening, Rory was at home. She had the house to herself, so she took the time to look at her husband's desk in disapproval. He'd straightened up the papers he'd been looking at that morning, but he hadn't put it away. She wondered how upset he'd be if she did it for him. She jumped in surprise when her ringtone broke the silence. She went over to her own desk and picked up her phone. "Hello?"
"Is it a bad time?" her mother asked. "You're frowning."
"How can you tell?"
"I can hear it in your voice. It's like your concentration voice, but darker. How are things?"
"Weird," Rory answered. "Tristan went off the deep end. He thinks his dad is having him followed."
"Why?"
"Because he saw his dad's PI the other day." Rory added, "If he wasn't convinced it was about him, he'd tell you it's only circumstantial."
"Mm, maybe."
"What do you mean, maybe?" Rory asked as she sank down into her swivel chair. "You don't think he's right, do you?"
"Well, he could be. Tristan's the one who knows his dad, not me. But I know from experience this happens sometimes."
"Grandpa never had you followed," Rory said impatiently.
"That we know of," Lorelai said. "I wasn't talking about him though. I was talking about Floyd Stiles. He had his private investigator follow Jason. It's how he found out we were dating."
"Tristan's dad doesn't need his PI for that stuff, Janlen probably tells him."
"Floyd wasn't following Jason for personal information though, that was extra. It was business," Lorelai explained. "He sued his own son and left him with nothing."
"This is different," Rory argued. "Tristan isn't in business competition with his dad."
"But isn't that the point? He refused. It probably still stings."
"If the contingent trust didn't work years ago, his dad has to know it still doesn't matter."
"Never underestimate how long a person can hold a grudge."
"But they've stayed out of each other's way for years," she continued to argue. "Their feud is silent—like they've both accepted their mutual inability to bend."
"Okay, whatever you say," Lorelai said lightly.
Rory crossed her free arm over her midsection and paused in thought. She sighed heavily. "You still think Tristan is right."
"These people are vindictive, and they can't stand it when things don't go their way," Lorelai said. "So, yes. I still think it's possible."
"You were probably the wrong person to talk to about this," Rory said dryly. "You two share the same paranoid thoughts. You should have seen him on the ride to breakfast this morning. I lost count of how many times he glanced out his rearview mirror."
"Hey, maybe we're wrong," Lorelai conceded. "Maybe his dad is completely innocent, but I have some advice, either way. Don't call Tristan crazy to his face on this one. He could be right."
"I hate it when that happens."
They were both silent for a moment, then Lorelai asked, "How much is he worth, anyway?"
"I don't know," Rory said, offended. "I never asked him."
"Always ask," Lorelai said. "Have I taught you nothing?"