The main characters in this story belong to Dick Wolf.
This story is rated M for language and for other potentially graphic material. Better safe than sorry, right? In addition, this story does not follow the storylines (is not part of a series) of any prior post.
Robert O. Goren hastily set his mail and keys down on the mottled formica kitchen counter top. After extracting a drinking glass from the drying rack, he brought the back of his hand under the faucet handle and raised it with one direct sweeping motion. In the time it took to fill the glass, his eyes glanced at the folded newspaper gripped tightly in his opposite hand.
"Wait," he murmured to himself.
It was important to stay composed. Of course he wanted to read the article immediately, but to practice self-control, he had denied himself any such gratification during the length of the four blocks he'd walked in order to purchase the thin weekday edition. All the way home, he'd played the paper against his left thigh.
Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.
The tri-folded publication protested softly with each determined stride.
Only twenty minutes prior, his world was relatively uncomplicated. Now, one phone call later, and his peace of mind had been irrevocably disturbed.
Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. THWAP!
Powered by frustration, the newspaper snapped a little too hard against his thigh as he recalled the events that projected him on a direct path to the news kiosk in the first place.
Fuck.
It was idiotic to believe that he had successfully put the past behind him.
Indeed, Goren had spent the past year in general obscurity, safely tucked away in his rent-controlled Brooklyn hideout. It had been over a year since he'd left his position with the New York Police Department. And despite the many negative predictions of his fellow colleagues, he'd even managed to find some semblance of order. For after a few unsuccessful ventures, he eventually found work as a private investigator. During the past five months, the gig helped pay the bills, gave him a puzzle to work on, and for better or worse, also gave him the opportunity to be his own boss - picking jobs that piqued his interest or paid well.
And today had started out like any other day. But at half past nine, his landline's ring tone cut through the familiar solitude.
The line rang twice before the caller hung up.
No loss. He rarely picked up the line. And why bother? Goren happily employed an antiquated answering machine to screen all of his calls.
Several seconds passed and the phone started to ring again.
After the fourth ring, the familiar whirl and click of the answering machine kicked on, and Goren's standard message sounded, "I'm not available, leave a message."
There was a beep, followed by a pause.
Goren looked up from his crossword puzzle, equally curious and irritated.
"Uhhh, Goren?"
The male caller cleared his throat, "Yeah, um, saw an article in today's paper. Your partner, Eames . . . "
At the pronouncement of her name, Goren caught his breath. It was Logan. Mike Logan, a former colleague at Major Case, who'd left the force years before retirement on his own volition. Goren recognized the voice immediately.
"I, um, don't have any more internal connections, you see," Logan paused, "I guess I was surprised to learn that Eames is on loan from Major Case."
There was another awkward pause.
"Everything okay?" Logan tentatively queried, "Um, anyway, yeah, that's it. Hope all is well."
Another pause, a pause, where he swore he could hear Logan grinning, "well, if you got out of there without being asked to leave, it can't be a bad thing right? All-righty then, call if you need too. Bye."
And with that, Goren's crossword was left uncharacteristically unfinished at the base of his armchair.
Back at his modest apartment, a glass of water and newspaper in hand, Goren carefully toed the discarded crossword out of his path.
He'd promised himself he wouldn't care. The mantra-like vow played endlessly in his head. And with every passing second he unsuccessfully tried to dissolve any desire out of his heart - an irrational desire that was based on some fantastical outcome that it still might be possible to put everything back together at square one: to a time when things were simple, pure, and without the complexities that had presented themselves over the past ten years.
But alas, he'd always known this day was coming. Knew that he'd have to face reading about her in the paper when she caught a big one. And this time it was without him.
Before sitting down, Goren took a swig of water, but because his mind was so obsessively focused on the contents of the paper, he choked. His eyes watered and he sputtered like an old car that refused to warm up on a cold January morning.
Startled, he steadied himself, clearing his throat as he sat down in his leather armchair.
His heart raced at a pace that outmatched his breath. Suddenly, he felt the need to wipe the extra moisture that had gathered at his hairline, on the base of his neck, and that was now collecting in the seams of his undershirt.
After clumsily setting the glass down on the side-table, Goren ceremoniously unfolded the newsprint on his lap. He closed his eyes, one last moment of sensory deprivation as he settled into the familiar depressions of the well-worn leather upholstery.
His chair.
A chair he'd spent an innumerable amount of hours in: lost in a book or dozing long after the alcohol had dried at the corners of his mouth.
With the paper set squarely on his lap, Goren slowly working the creases out with palm of his hand. The familiar smell of freshly printed newsprint distracted him briefly before his index finger and thumb gently worked the edges of the first page.
His eyes scanned the contents of the pages. He gasped. He wasn't prepared to see her photo.
The greyscale image was small, less than the dimensions of a standard business card.
He squinted, tilted his head to the right, as if he could somehow extract more details at that particular angle.
Fuck. She was lovely.
Fuck. She still looked good.
Lieutenant Alexandra Eames. That's what was captioned in bold Times New Roman directly under the photo. She was framed behind a podium of sorts, the familiar pattern of a flag and the seal of the NYPD were slightly out of focus but still visibly present in the negative space that surrounded her.
He forced his eyes away from her visage, but was quickly drawn back in as he followed the steep line of her cheekbone. Her eyes were hard to read – nothing but dark slits; she was focusing hard, as Eames often did. He'd seen that expression a thousand times over. Indeed, only a thousand fucking times.
His eyes bounced back and forth between her image and the headline: Terrorist Prostitution Ring Scandal provides no leads for NYPD.
With great effort, Goren diverted his eyes from the photo of Eames to the body of the surrounding article.
It read:
New York Police Department's Homeland Security Unit was unable to generate any viable leads during a high profile terrorism investigation, the department acknowledged Friday.
The NYPD is the largest police department in the nation and Mayor Michael Bloomberg has held up its counterterrorism tactics as a model for the rest of the country. "Our Homeland Security Unit is central to keeping the city safe."
Lieutenant Eames also confirmed that the NYPD Special Victims Unit, was also key to the investigation, but conceded the NYPD had not generated any leads.
"With the help of (Special Victims Unit) Captain Cragen, I've identified a connection, and I'm using that information to determine that this would be the type of operation that a terrorist group would benefit from." Eames explained.
Goren's breath quickened as he digested the article several times through. Of course there were the big takeaways: Lieutenant Alex Eames on loan from the prestigious Major Case, Eames listed as with the joint task force with Homeland Security working in conjunction with NYPD Special Victims Unit, a terrorism case that was purportedly linked with a prostitution ring where the police initially infiltrated said prostitution rings, planted informants, and closely monitored the women involved, that there were no major leads - but all the while there were many agencies were pointing fingers at one another - i.e., fucking politics as usual.
And again, he stared at the photo of Eames with an intensity that he usually reserved for a suspect.
Fuck.
Eames.
He sucked in another deep breath.
Looks like she doesn't need me any more.
Why couldn't he see it clear as day? It was time to pull the plug. Time to go far away. Time to close up shop and move on . . .
A.N. - Nice to be back. Although I don't know how often I will be able to post. As always, I will try my best and am always open to suggestion. Comments are always appreciated. Sadly, this one may be a darker take, and a little less hopeful than my previous work. Cheers! - MDH