Chapter 2

My whopping two martinis must have been enough to overwhelm my desire because I woke up to complete darkness. There was no light coming in under the door and all I could hear besides the pounding in my head was the usual city background noise. I turned on the light to see, which made my head throb even more. Goren had left a glass of water and some Advil on the nightstand for me. And I wondered why I was in love with this man. I practically guzzled the water after taking two Advil.

Goren had also put a robe at the bottom of the bed. Even though I could wrap it around myself twice, it was better than dashing to his bathroom in my lacy red boy shorts and matching bra. To be taken seriously in Major Case, I had to appear almost asexual. Pretty underwear was how I held onto my femininity. This time I thought it would be my pounding headache that would keep me up but before I knew it, I was waking up to sunlight streaming into Goren's bedroom. I pulled on yesterday's clothes and made my way to the bathroom. The apartment seemed very quiet and I wondered if Goren was still asleep. It didn't take me long once I'd left the bathroom to realize he was gone. I was still trying to process the fact that he'd left when I heard the deadbolt sliding.

"Coffee?" he held up the tray. "How are you feeling?"

"Mostly embarrassed," I rolled my eyes. "I really need that coffee. Thank you", I breathed as I pulled it from the tray.

"Self-defense," he winked at me. "I have to work with you today."

"Right, I'm the one that's hard to get along with," I scoffed. "But I really do appreciate the coffee. And the water and Advil were a Godsend!"

"No problem,'" he smiled. "In the interest of time," Goren changed the subject, "How about I drive you to your place and wait while you shower."

"Works for me," I agreed and grabbed my purse.

It was weird showering with Goren sitting in my living room. I've probably never gotten ready that fast in my entire life.

Rodgers was leaning against Goren's desk when we walked into the squad room. If she thought it was odd that we were coming in together, she made no indication. On the other hand, I noticed right away that she wasn't sitting in my chair.

"Here they are," she handed me the autopsy reports on the cases we'd found the day before.

She was treating me like the senior partner! Goren had said something.

When I glanced over at him to confirm, he met my eyes, but I couldn't quite make out what was behind them, but that look alone was enough to make my heart race. I wished I could tell what he was thinking the way he could read me.

Rodgers had apparently said something because both of them were now looking at me as if waiting for me to speak.

"Do you have time?" Goren jumped in for me.

"A few minutes," she nodded.

Goren retrieved the other files from his desk drawer and headed to the interrogation room. He glanced back at his shoulder at me, another indecipherable look on his face.

Shit! Was it any surprise that people deferred to him? Rodgers must have thought I was a complete idiot, or at least was suffering from some hearing loss.

The autopsy reports on the 1991 case, Carolann Moffat, and the 2001 case, Sylvie Gagnon, confirmed that the new cases were part of the pattern we'd seen the day before with Charmaine Willis and Simone Saunders. The restraint marks were the same, from the lividity pattern it was clear they'd been positioned in the same way when they died, but Sylvie's body had been moved once lividity was fixed. Our guy had also refined his technique. It had taken him more than one try to strangle Carolann Moffat. There were three ligature marks to attest to that. Sylvie Gagnon only had one. Both had premortem cuts to the face, breasts, abdomen and inner thigh, but the cuts to Carolann were ragged. The blade that had inflicted Sylvie's wounds had been very sharp.

"Do you know the M.E. For Union City?" Goren asked Rodgers as she gathered up the files. We could keep copies, but she had to take any originals back.

"Ya, misogynistic creep," she grimaced.

"And you asked him to look for this pattern?" I was curious.

"In person, at a conference. He said he would, but I'm not surprised," her disgust was evident in her voice.

"Okay, when we know something, you'll know something," Goren promised as we stood up.

"Can you start requesting the case files, Goren?" I asked once Rodgers was gone. "I've got a hunch."

The recent cases would be in the department database but the two early cases would still be on paper. It would probably be faster to search the records ourselves but we were doing this by the book.

When Goren was finished, he rolled his chair over to my desk to see what I was doing. "What parameters did you use?" he asked when he saw the list of names I'd written down and the database I was searching. I could hear printer in the corner busily printing out every case I'd selected. This was one database that was updated regularly.

"Height, weight, age, sex, race and profession," I told him as I selected another name.

"Profession?" his curiosity mounted.

"Our vics have been between 5'9" and 5'11" and underweight. Any profession spring to mind?"

"He's hunting models!" Goren slapped my desk.

Several pairs of eyes in the squad room turned to look at us.

"He's hunting models in New York City, Bobby. It's like shooting fish in a barrel, but there's more..."

I walked over to grab the printouts. "Check out the dates – the months," I instructed as I handed him stack of pages.

"September, February, February," Goren read the months off as he flipped through the papers. "September, September, February. I don't get it, Eames. What's significant about these months?"

"Fashion week," I informed him.

"The city is overrun with models," Goren's eyes were wide. "That's not hunting. That's cherry picking. No wonder no one ever noticed," he rubbed his forehead. "One model goes missing during fashion week, cops would argue she'd just flitted off to a party somewhere without telling anyone," he sighed heavily. "Wait, wait," he stood up suddenly and grabbed his notes from his desk. "The Union City case doesn't fit. She was killed in November."

"Oh, but it does fit, Bobby," I was positively jubilant. "There was no Fashion Week in New York in September 2001."

"Of course there wasn't," he nodded. "So our guy had to adapt." He put the stack of missing persons reports on my desk and looked at me quizzically. "I had no idea you followed fashion so closely, Eames."

"I'm not sure if I should be insulted by that or not," I laughed, "But Fashion Week is held in Bryant Park, Bobby. I have to take a different route to work when it's on."

"Right," he nodded. I could tell from his expression that he'd already moved on.

"I think we should for now focus on Sylvie Gagnon, Eames. The one where he was forced outside of his usual pattern will tell us a lot."

"Here's something I didn't know about Fashion Week," I'd switched from the missing persons database to a Google search. "Fashion Week wasn't held at Bryant Park until 1994 and before that it was called Press Week. That might make earlier cases harder to investigate. Press Week had events spread out all over the city."

"Then I bet '94 is when his pattern really gelled. He must have an in, but barely. He isn't taken very seriously or he fades into the background," Goren sat down again. "That '91 case..."

"Carolann Moffat," I interjected.

"It was different, too - early," Goren was getting into his own head already. "If she was the first, Eames, there could be a lot there, too."

"Sylvie is more recent," I reminded him.

"What do we know about her?" He looked at me to fill in the details.

"She was 20, a French-Canadian. I don't have much else. You should have access to her to file. What does it say?"

Goren rolled back to his desk to check his laptop. "Your first instinct was right, Eames. There's not a lot here. Her parents claimed her body and took her back to Montreal. It talks about where she was found, state of the body, what she was wearing. That's how they knew it wasn't a robbery. She still had her shoes. The dress was destroyed, but the shoes were undamaged. There isn't anything else here. I guess we need to talk to..." Goren paused as he scanned the file, "Detective Kendrick."

Kendrick worked out of the 27th precinct. The 2-7 had a solid reputation, but certainly not because of Steve Kendrick. He was the kind of cop that made us all look bad. His desk was a mess, his shirt was rumpled and there was a mustard stain on his tie.

"What was that case again?" he asked Goren as we pulled chairs up to his desk. We had spoken to him two hours earlier after clearing it with his Lieutenant, Anita Van Buren. Goren had been about to contact him directly until I reminded him that we were going by the book.

"Sylvie Gagnon," Goren reminded him.

I could already feel the tension emanating from Goren. Kendrick hadn't even bothered to look at his notes before we arrived. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lieutenant Van Buren get up from her desk. I looked back at Goren. He was starting to get twitchy. I had to defuse this quickly. I took our file with Sylvie's picture and autopsy report and handed it to Kendrick.

"This is Sylvie," I told him. As I sat back down, I turned my head toward Goren. "Easy," I breathed in his ear.

"Detectives," Van Buren greeted us with a smile.

"Right," Kendrick nodded. "I remember this one. A pro dumped in Jersey right after 9-11."

"A pro," Goren repeated. His blink rate was up.

"Ya, I guess she pissed off her pimp. Her parents wouldn't believe it," he shrugged. "Easier when the trash take care of each other," he winked at Goren.

"A pro in Jimmy Choo shoes and a Donna Karan dress." Goren clarified.

"Huh?" Kendrick was lost.

Goren moved on without explaining. "Eames, you worked Vice. What do you know about pimps?"

"Pimps are too lazy to do any real work. If they need to straighten one of their girls out, they usually just smack her around, but cut her? That's Hollywood, that would damage his goods - face, breasts, thighs? No way a pimp would cut a girl like that. If he really wanted her dead, he'd use a hot shot. Coroner would rule it an OD. A pimp looks for the easiest way out. Cutting a girl up? That's messy. Dumping her in Jersey? Especially after 9-11, that takes planning. I've never met a pimp with that kind of work ethic."

At that point I couldn't tell who was angrier, Goren or Van Buren. Van Buren was better at hiding it. I thought Goren was going to wear a hole in his leather binder he was hitting it so hard with his pen. When Van Buren rounded Kendrick's desk to look at Sylvie's file, I snatched Goren's pen and touched his hand quickly. He turned to look at me, his blink rate slowed as I looked into eyes, pleading with him silently to calm down.

"Maybe I read it wrong," Kendrick seemed unphased. "Everyone was under a lot of pressure then."

"Well, thanks for your time," I smiled as I stood up. "If you remember anything else, will you let us know?"

"Of course, Detective Eames," Van Buren handed the file back to me.

"Why the interest in this one, anyway?" Kendrick wanted to know.

"She's Canadian. Quebec Provincial Police asked if there was any progress with her case. We caught it." Goren turned his head slowly to look at me as I lied.

"Well, I'm sorry we couldn't be of more help," Van Buren looked sincerely apologetic.

Goren and I walked out of the squad room silently so I had no problem overhearing Van Buren telling Kendrick she wanted to see him in her office. I wondered if she'd explain who Jimmy Choo and Donna Karan were.

"Eames?" Goren began once we were in the stairwell. "Which book was that from? I'd really like a copy."

"That's your problem, Goren. You can't tell what crosses the line and what doesn't. You don't even know where the line is, or you don't care. Van Buren is so disgusted with Kendrick right now, her focus will be on him. And my lie was completely plausible," I smiled smugly.

When we got to the landing, Goren stopped and blocked my progress by putting his arm on the railing on my side of the stairs. He took another step down so we were standing basically eye to eye.

"Thank you," his warm brown eyes answered the question in my eyes. "I wanted to knock that stupid look off that ignorant waste of skin's face."

"You were twitching so much I thought you were going to fly apart. Why do you let it get to you?" I wanted to pull him into my arms and never let him go.

"He's supposed to be one of the good guys, Eames. He's supposed to protect people like Sylvie, not write her off as a whore." The warmth in Goren's eyes had turned to sorrow.

"We'll do everything we can for her, Bobby, for all of these women." I did the best I could to ease his mind. He let himself get more personally invested in every case than any cop I'd ever known and I knew a lot of cops. I'd been surrounded by them all of my life.

"I know we will, Eames" the cloud began to lift from his brow. "Now can I have my pen back?" he held out his hand.

When we got back to One Police Plaza, we had to regroup. We were both still convinced that Sylvie Gagnon could tell us more than any of the other victims but the lack of investigation into her case was making everything harder than we'd anticipated.

"We need to know more about Sylvie Gagnon" Goren saw no other choice. "How's your French?"

"Mine? That's your department, Bobby," I laughed.

"I think a phone call to her parents asking tough questions would be better coming from a woman," he began to explain.

"We're doing this by the book, remember?" I cut him off. "That means we find out exactly where her parents live and find out if we need to talk to the Montreal city cops or the Surete du Quebec," I'm sure my pronunciation was off. "We talk to them – they talk to the parents, after we clear it with Deakins."

"How long will that take?" Goren looked frustrated.

"It'll be faster than waiting for Kendrick to remember something," I pointed out. "And better for this case than Deakins finding out that we'd upset a victim's family by asking them personal questions in mangled French."

"I hate the book," he grumbled. "It doesn't feel like we accomplished anything today."

"We know who he targets and that he's smart enough to wait until Fashion Week," I reminded him.

"That's something, I guess," he sighed.

"It's after 5, Goren. We'll take this to Deakins in the morning and get his okay to talk to the Quebec cops, okay? I'll call Rodgers and let her know that it's models."

"Okay," he closed his case and zipped it up.

"Are you up for another drink?" he asked once I was off the phone.

"You trust me to have another drink?" I laughed.

"Maybe one," he smiled. My car was still in the lot by the bar, so Goren drove. We hadn't gone far when I realized we weren't going to his local.

"Where are we going?" I was curious.

"There's another place I've always wanted to try," he shrugged.

It wasn't the route I normally took but we were definitely heading the direction of my place. I was convinced he was driving me home until he stopped in an Italian neighborhood a couple of miles from my place.

"I heard this place was kinda cool," he looked to see if I approved.

"Okay," I shrugged and got out of the car.

Inside was very dark. The bar itself was mahogany with brass accents; the rug was dark, maybe brown, maybe burgundy. The smoking ban had been in effect for over a year but it smelled like someone had been smoking in here the previous night.

"Get a booth," Goren nodded toward the back of the bar. "I'll get our drinks."

When I saw the booths close up I knew what Goren was talking about. The seats and backs were red leather but above the back of the seat, an ornately carved partition rose almost to the ceiling. Any conversation held here would be extremely private. It was very Rat Pack.

Goren joined me more quickly than I expected. Our drinks usually took longer to mix. I don't know what surprised me more, the fact that Goren slid in beside me or the glass he handed me.

"What's this?" I held up the glass. It looked like ginger ale.

"Ginger ale," he replied.

"Why did you get me ginger ale?" I was very confused. Goren knew what I drank.

"I want you sober," he was looking at me intently.

"You want me sober!" I was incredulous.

"If I ask you something, will you be honest with me?" His tone was very warm. I didn't recognize it.

"Of course, but I would've been honest with a martini, too," I was still confused.

He edged a little closer to me and angled his body so he was facing me more. Our knees were now touching. He put his arm on the back of the seat and leaned toward me. "How long has it been?"

"How long has what been?" His closeness was making me very warm. He didn't answer, but he was watching me closely. My mind was racing. I didn't know what he was thinking. He wanted me sober? He bought me a ginger ale? He wanted me to be honest about how long it had been?

"Do you think I'm an alcoholic?" It was the first thing that sprang to my mind.

He threw his head back and laughed. "No, Eames, you might be a cheap drunk now, but I know you're not an alcoholic. That's not what I meant."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

He tilted his head at me as he looked into my eyes. "Yes, you do." His voice had that warm tone that was making my palms sweaty.

"I'm not one of your suspects, Bobby. You can't make me confess when I have nothing to confess to," I had no idea what was going on.

"Alex," he began, making my stomach flip flop at his use of my first name. "All I want to know is how long you've had feelings for me."

"I, I..." I sputtered. It felt like my heart was going to pound out of my chest and I could barely breathe.

"Okay, I'll go first," he leaned closer. "I'll admit that I noticed how attractive you are right away but my feelings must have crept on me because it wasn't until I had to work with Bishop that I realized I was in love with you."

My eyes were glued to his. I think my mouth was hanging open. I couldn't believe what he was telling me.

"I also knew it wasn't the best time for true confessions, so I just put my feelings away and waited. Now, please tell me, when did you realize?"

"I don't know, a couple of months maybe," I couldn't think straight.

He finished closing the distance between us and softly brushed his lips against mine. I opened my mouth to let him explore. When his tongue gently swept my bottom lip, I sighed into his mouth and began to return his kisses. Our kissing quickly deepened. His hand had moved to the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair so he could turn my head to the angle he wanted. I melted against him. I could feel that his breathing was as labored as mine. I was trying to work out how I was going to get into his lap when he pulled away. I felt the loss instantly.

"Your place," he said, still breathing heavily. It wasn't a question.