Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY.
A/N: I love my reviewers, and all those who are reading along. I'm sorry I'm not posting quite as fast as I did before; this story is coming at me in odd directions and it is taking a little while to put it together! Bear with me, please!
Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night".
Chapter 3: Reaching Out
Flack and Stella found Hawkes in the lab, on webcam with Dr. Martens in Montana. As they came closer, they heard Hawkes saying, "Thanks, doctor. If you wouldn't mind sending me copies of the files, I know the team here would feel better. We are naturally concerned."
Chris frowned, but mustered up a smile, "Look, Dr. Hawkes, I know we might not have impressed you up there in the big city, but I can assure that we generally don't lose patients. Especially ones who are important to us. Everyone here is as invested in seeing Detective Messer on his feet as you guys there could be, for Lindsay's sake if not for his own."
"I'm sorry if it sounded like a issue of trust, Dr. Martens. It's not that at all. It's just been a difficult time for our team, and we'd like to be kept in the know. That's all."
Stella thought it would be hard for anyone not to be disarmed by Hawkes' obvious sincerity. Not for the first time, she wondered why a man so sweet and honest seemed to have no one more special in his life than his mother.
Chris nodded crisply and said, "I understand. I'll see that copies of all relevant files are sent to you at the lab. We are having one problem with Detective Messer at the moment, though. I wonder if I could ask your advice?"
"Of course."
"He's refusing morphine. I know that probably has something to do with Lindsay's overdose – he was the one who discovered her seizing – but he's not rational enough to discuss this. We've had to up his dose twice to control his pain responses and he's exhibited signs of extreme distress each time. Is there any alternative you can suggest?"
As the medical professionals discussed pain medications and methods of delivery, Stella and Don waited as patiently as possible. Finally the two doctors signed off, all signs of distrust seemingly, for the moment at least, buried.
"What can I tell the Messer family, Hawkes?"
Hawkes took a look at the strain around Flack's eyes and immediately diagnosed a headache brought on by the thought of having to be the unwelcome bearer of bad news. Casually, he reached for a bottle of acetaminophen and tossed it to the detective, following it with a bottle of water.
"You get the short stick?"
"Naw, volunteered." Flack shrugged when Hawkes cocked an eyebrow inquisitively at him. "They don't like me much, but they hate Mac. He'd 'a done it, but it would 'a hurt like hell."
"Why not ask Father Tony to come with you?" Stella interjected without thinking. "He's good with this sort of thing."
Don had just tossed a couple of pills in his mouth and choked on the water he was washing them down with. Water spewed out of his mouth and nose as he tried to catch his breath. Stella rushed to him, patting his back, while Hawkes grabbed a box of tissues and thrust them at him to mop up.
"Bad thought?" Hawkes deadpanned.
"You have NO idea!"
"Why?" Stella looked from one to the other in confusion.
Flack took her hand, "I need you to trust me here, Stel. Remember when we had lunch with Danny, and I told you I knew some things about his family even he doesn't know I know?"
Stella worked through that sentence for a few seconds, then nodded her head.
"Well, I can't tell you what I know, okay? There are too many layers here to cut through, but it's a matter of trust. On all kinds of levels."
Stella stood back on her heels, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. She was prepared to do a lot of things to help her friends or even to satisfy her own curiosity, but push someone to betray his sense of trust was not one of them. She nodded once and did not miss Flack's deep sigh of relief.
Hawkes stepped in at that point, giving Flack a quick overview of the information Dr. Martens had passed on. "Bottom line," he finished up, noticing the impatience in Flack's eyes, "He'll remain in hospital at least another week, be off work for another month. But he should recover."
Flack nodded sharply, "I'd better get this over with then."
"So I guess I can't come with you?" Stella said, quiet but resigned.
"I wish you could - you have no idea. But it would not be a good plan."
"Can I come with you and wait in the car?"
Flack looked into her green eyes, filled with a pained hope, and much against his better judgment, nodded. "You have to stay in the car, though, okay? I don't want them to see you."
Stella's eyes went blank, and Flack cursed himself. "Said too much, you idiot." She just nodded though.
They drove out to Staten Island without speaking much, fighting the bridge traffic to a soundtrack of beeping horns and swearing New Yorkers. Stella tried a few conversational gambits, but nearly every topic she brought up was met with silence, or at best a polite request to repeat herself, so she gave up. Travel through the city and out to the boroughs was never smooth, but she felt the weight of Don's concern. She shouldn't have pushed her way into this, she knew.
The Messers lived in the heart of Little Italy on the Island, not that that was hard. One in three Staten Islanders still supported Italy in the World Cup, and soccer was still futbol to most of them. The year before, when Italy had taken the Cup, the local police had participated in the celebratory riot with cheerful anarchy. Officers from the other boroughs had been put on stand-by in case things got out of control.
Flack cruised the streets slowly. He'd been here before, but he was in no hurry to repeat the experience. Finally, he pulled to the curb and parked in front of a neighbourhood grocery store.
"You need to stay here, Stella." His voice brooked no argument.
"Danny's parents work here?"
"No. I can't pull up in front of their place. Don't ask, okay? I could be a while."
He thought dispiritedly, "Or I could be back in under a minute."
Stella nodded, crossing her arms and chewing her lip. "Can I get out?"
Flack sighed. Like she'd stay if he said no. "Please don't follow me. And please don't investigate, okay? You can shop."
Stella nodded again. She really didn't mean to go against Flack in this. She could prove she was worthy of his trust. She could curb her curiosity.
For a while, at least.
Flack walked away from the car without looking back. He was determined to trust Stella.
At least until he couldn't.
As he neared the small neat apartment building he had been to only twice before, he steeled himself for the encounter. This promised to be moderately unpleasant. Unlike the first time, when he had come with a summons in his hand, or the last time, when he had come to inform the family of Louie's disastrous attempt to save Danny, this time, he comforted himself, his news was cautiously optimistic.
Not that he expected to be any more welcome.
In spite of the winter chill, there were plants in small pots sitting in the window on the third floor, which had a southern exposure and lots of sunshine. Basil, oregano, mint, a couple of types of thyme: Mrs. Messer's kitchen garden until the spring.
He flashed his badge at a young woman coming out of the building, who held the door open for him, which at least meant he wouldn't be refused at the intercom. He climbed the stairs, the elevator being out of order. A fly-specked, yellowed notice to that effect on the elevator door proved that was not unusual. When he arrived, he knocked firmly on the apartment door, noting that it had been freshly painted, then stepped back so that the person peering at him from the security peephole could see his face properly before opening the door.
"Detective."
"Mrs. Messer."
She had not changed much since the first time he had shown up on her doorstep, a nervous rookie following his more experienced partner, Gavin Moran, around like an overgrown puppy. Her hair was still black, perhaps a little too black to be natural. Her eyes, like his own, were a deep blue, with long, black lashes, signifying the northern Italian roots of her family. She had the type of ageless beauty that comes from confidence and good bone structure: her cheekbones were high and delicately curved; her lips full and lush. She stood tall and secure, wrapping silence around her like a shield, like a sword.
She did not invite him in, standing in the doorway, guarding the threshold against intrusion.
"I'm sorry to disturb you. Is Mr. Messer in?
She looked at him with derision. "Middle of the day? Ya' think he has time to sit around the house in the middle of the day?" Her voice, as always, was cool and pitched low. It should have been attractive.
Flack shrugged, "I wanted to tell you that Danny has been injured. He was shot, but he's out of surgery and should make a full recovery."
"Where is he? Which hospital?"
"In Montana, at Bozeman Deaconess Hospital. Here," he offered her a card, which she took with a small grimace of displeasure, being careful not to let her fingers touch his. "This is the name of his doctor and the phone number of the hospital. My number's on there too, if you or Mr. Messer have any questions."
The look of distaste deepened when Flack mentioned her husband again.
"Why would we have any questions?"
Flack shrugged, disgusted, and turned to go. "You even know he was in Montana?" he flung over his shoulder.
"You say hi to your daddy for me, won't you?" she responded sardonically, before slamming the door.
Flack froze for a moment, struggling for control. Then, slowly, he walked back to the car, casually checking for disturbances. When he came around the corner, he saw without surprise that Stella was not sitting in the front seat where he had left her. He leaned up against the car, waiting for her.
"Hey, Flack. Wha'cha doin' out in the boonies?"
It was a skinny runt of a kid who sidled up to him, speaking out of the side of his mouth like a Saturday afternoon matinee gangster.
"Mouse? I thought you'd be dead by now, man."
"Yeah, well, it's been tried."
"Guess it's hard to kill off the rodents. What's that they say - build a better Mouse trap ...?"
"Ha ha, look at the funny man. What's going down in these parts that would interest you?"
"Private business. Nothin' to do with anyone. Got that, Mouse? Nothin'." Flack's eye went ice cold, and the skinny kid backed up slowly.
"Hearing's 20/20, man. Just chill, 'kay? Thought you might like to know something, that's all."
"From you, Mouse? Inner city squeaking not what it used to be?"
"Hey man, no skin off my teeth if you don't want it. Someone'll slip me a bill for it."
Sighing, Flack took a twenty out of his wallet, and held it enticingly between his fingers. "C'mon, Mouse. Share."
The teenager crept a little closer. "Sassone's got a brother." His trembling hand snatched at the money. Flack's hand closed up tight.
"We know that, punk. He's banged up alongside his big bro and the rest of the Tangled-Up boys."
The teen wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "Naw, not that one. An older one. A cop one."
Flack stuck his hand in his pocket and snorted derisively. "You've blown what's left of your brains out your nose, man. Nice not doing business with you."
The kid grabbed Flack's arm as he turned to get in his car. Flack froze and simply stared at the grubby hand wrinkling his sleeve before turning the ice of his glare to the thin face with the jumpy eyes.
Mouse dropped his hand as if he had been burned, but persisted. "Straight up, man. He's a Fed or something. Changed his name, but he's out there. And something's going down. Why would I lie?" He smiled ingratiatingly, showing his brown broken teeth like a threat.
Flack slipped the twenty back in his wallet, and pulled out a ten. He held it out. "I get more, you get more."
He didn't even see the money leave his hand, just felt the breeze as Mouse scuttled away.
"Don? Everything okay?"
He turned to see Stella with two bags of groceries standing on the sidewalk by the car. He grinned at the sight, "Well, I did tell you to go shopping, didn't I?"
"Hey, my retail therapy is your dinner of Penne Pollo Pomodoro, so just sit back and enjoy, would you?"
He opened the back door for her to put the bags in, then wrapped his arms around her waist and took her mouth in a searing kiss.
She responded as always, heat rising so fast she could barely keep her feet on the ground. When he finally ended the kiss, he rested his forehead on hers for a moment.
She ran her fingers through his hair, and said with a teasing grin, "I wonder what it says about your past that you always want to ravish me up against your car!"
-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-
"Don't. Please don't. I'll be good. I promise. Please don't close the door."
"Whiny little brat. Pissing yourself because of the dark! If I had to be saddled with another little shit, did it have to be one who's afraid of everything? Why can't you be like your brother? He's not afraid of anything. You're useless. Useless."
"Ah, mio bambino, sh, sh, sh. Quello piccolo, è calmo. Siete sicuri. Niente li nuocerà."
"You stupid old woman. Shut the fuck up and leave the kid alone. No wonder he's such a baby. Get out of here. I mean it – get the hell out of here. If I had my way, I'd send you back to Sicily with all the other stupid old bitches to mutter and pray yourself to death."
"Siete diabolica. Il dio di maggio ha misericordia sulla vostra anima,
dato che certamente non."
"Stop with the fucking Italian, you old witch. You're in the States now - speak English! Danny, get into bed and shut the fuck up. Or the next time, it'll be the closet."
"Sarà migliore, il mio bambino. È soltanto l'alcool che la incita a parlare così."
-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-
A/N: There is Italian in this story. It will often not be translated, though, because it's a 'secret' language, which will make much more sense in later chapters (or if you read the previous story carefully). Of course, I can't stop readers from translating it themselves – LOL – but a little patience may be a good thing!
