Chapter Two
Federal Reserve Bank of New York, 33 Liberty Street, Sunday, June 19
Goren and Eames had little time to navigate the scene of the crime before the Feds showed up to crash their party.
After a slightly combative conversation with Agents Toro and Stevens, Eames stepped out of the somewhat awkward confrontation armed only with her cell phone and Captain Joseph Hannah's mobile number. And although Eames was just out of audible range, Goren felt genuinely confident she'd be able to receive final confirmation on who was to be awarded jurisdiction of the DOA first.
Meanwhile, both federal agents were less than amused by Goren's not-so-subtle antics. It wasn't until Eames excused herself to contact Hannah that Goren finally removed his formidable frame from Agent Toro's personal space.
The body of CEO Gordon Reinhardt had been gunned down some fifteen feet away – an area that was still well within Goren's peripheral vision. Witnesses and employees of the bank that had given statements to both himself and Eames were being released only after being subjected to giving a duplicate version of the events to the Feds.
"It's irrelevant that you got here first," Toro reminded, a touch of arrogance coloring his tone.
Goren smirked at the pronouncement, eyes deliberately cast downward as if he were too busy studying the random patterns on the bank's marble floor. He was caught between the desire to continue to irritate the agents or move a step closer towards his partner; a course that might help him determine the fate of the case before his competition.
"Aggressive wench," Stevens muttered under his breath.
Goren's body stiffened as the words left Stevens' mouth. Within seconds his blood boiled and he felt his fists clench. So much for his poker face.
"She wear the pants detective?" Stevens leered.
When you malfunction, I'm trying to find out what happens and when.
It wasn't difficult to figure out what Stevens and Toro were doing, the question was whether or not Goren had the self control necessary to stay in line.
You need to learn how to curb your anger to keep your job.
"Of course he doesn't wear the pants, she's the senior partner," Toro directed back at Stevens.
And it's going to be hard – but you're smart enough to learn how to game yourself.
Goren forced himself to take a breath, count to ten and then look at Eames. He watched her left hand gesturing vigorously in the air. God, do I really need to embarrass her again? This is the kind of shit that landed me with the shrink in the first place. And why does it matter that they are talking smack about Eames? She can hold her own. Why can't I?
Finally, after what seemed like a painfully long period of time of self reflection, Goren noticed that Eames just ended her conversation. Although Eames was turned away from him as she slipped the phone into her back pocket, he clearly observed her pause, take in a breath and square her shoulders. And with that, it was clear as day that they'd just lost jurisdiction to the pricks.
Eames calmly walked back towards him, as if somehow she'd comprehended that he'd already translated the news from her body language.
She spoke congenially as she approached Toro and Stevens, her right hand extended for a handshake, "as the body has yet to be released to the morgue, looks like you'll be taking the trip to the hospital."
Toro accepted Eames' gesture with a self-congratulatory smile, Stevens simply nodded his head in her direction.
Goren couldn't help but squint in displeasure. As far as he was concerned, these assholes didn't deserve any civility for their part. But for Eames' sake, he nodded begrudgingly towards both agents.
They walked in silence away from the scene, Goren understanding that he'd get the necessary details on the ride home.
"What was that all about?" Eames queried with an arched eyebrow, using her fob to unlock the car doors.
"Simple posturing," Goren replied, edging his large frame into the passenger side.
Eames buried a smile as she belted herself in and eased off the emergency break, "well, I though we'd give it a whirl."
He nodded back, deep in thought, wondering for the first time just how the timing had worked out with Eames, the DOA and his Sunday shrink appointment.
"Damn," she muttered, turning the key while depressing a button to power open all the SUV's windows at once, "humid as hell." Her rather piercing gaze fell upon him for the second time today, "I hope you're not disappointed," she spoke slowly raising both eyebrows, hesitating slightly before adding, "I mean, at least we have one reason to celebrate."
He smiled brightly, remembering clearly the relief he'd felt when Gyson confirmed that she wasn't going to take his job away, "she, uh, Dr. Gyson said that I was, you know, more than capable of doing my job."
Eames beamed brightly back at him, "damn straight. So, where should we go?"
"I'm sorry?" he started, "Oh, to, uh - celebrate?"
She nodded, brushing a stray hair out of her face, "I'm buying."
"No, Alex . . ."
She cocked her head slightly amused, "that's the second time today."
He raised his brows questioningly, slightly embarrassed that he was having a difficult time following her train of thought this afternoon. I mean, they usually were in synch, even without words.
"You hardly ever call me Alex," she looked at him intently, trying to read his expression before any of his explanations might pour forth, "so many things, you know, I feel like maybe," she paused again, eyes warm with hope, "maybe we're getting back on track again, it's, um, it's real nice Bobby."
His heart stirred, a warm sensation spreading through his chest - almost giving him the extra push he needed to take pull off his blazer in the sweltering afternoon heat.
"Uh," he mused, "how about Delmonico's?"
"Okay," she flashed a killer smile in his direction before checking her mirrors and pulling the car out onto Liberty street.
There was so much he wanted to tell her, and at the same time so much he'd need to hold back until he had time to explore his inner feelings and emotions.
And the more time he had to ponder Gyson's consult, the more he felt confident that Gyson was probably right all along.
It was the job.
He'd put the job not only above himself, he'd put it above the feelings and emotions he had for Alex.
The job: from his stint in the army, to narcotics, and finally to MCS. I mean, he was so good at what he did, so much so, that for the first time in his life he could float above all others. Fly far above his pathetic beginnings – you know, that of a poor Italian-American kid raised almost single-handedly by a mentally-ill mother in one of the many awful low-income complexes in Brooklyn.
The job . . .
You're convinced it's the only thing that defines you. You think without the puzzle, you don't matter. . .
And yes, as he enjoyed each year of success - he had lied to himself like a son-of-a-bitch. Was that really so odd? With each passing year he became more removed from his humble roots until finally, it wasn't so hard to see why the job (and the job alone) made him special. His success propelled him to Major Case, gifted him the opportunity to work with the talented Alexandra Eames. So it wasn't hard to comprehend why the job was the only thing that made him unique and special to Eames too. What would he be without the job? Would she find him special? Could she love him outside of the job?
Goddamned he needed Gyson's help. He didn't know the answer to some the most basic questions. And then there was the other statement Gyson had suggested - one that confused the shit out of him:
There's so much more to you than that.
