This is the second episode of the show (Ghosts) in three parts. And, I forgot to mention at the first chapters, but the story is beta-read by my dearest author/friend persevera. She's got so good stories in many different fandoms, I strongly recommend them.
Enjoy.
Chapter II – "Dealing with it"
Two days later, hidden behind a corner, John Reese was in front of a low-rise walk up apartment where W 133 Street crossed Amsterdam Avenue. Lauren Fusco appeared behind her door, and left her safe haven to cool another "hard" work day off before the sun set down. Dressed in sports attire, her head hidden under her hoodie, she was already running towards Riverside Park. As soon as she lost behind the opposite corner, John moved away from his post and went toward her apartment. The three stories building didn't have any doorman at the front, so he walked into it quickly, without any problem at sight, but rather in his ear.
"Do I need to remind you that your assistance might be needed in Bill Garner's office?" Finch asked, his tone slightly taking a hint on irritation. It was a kind of thing that he had gotten used to hearing around him. For some reason, people always seemed to get irritated in his company.
"Don't worry," he said, climbing the stairs to the upper floor two at a time, "He won't leave his office until eight." Just before his sentence finished, he arrived at his destination, and stopped in front of the detective's door, and inspected her locks carefully. "He already got a date with his lover," he continued, as he seized the Baldwin up and down, feeling the curt edges of the lock under the tip of his finger, "and the hired goons are in the waiting. As of the moment, Bill is safe and sound."
Finch made an uncommitted sound, but didn't bother with an actual reply as John fished out a long steel piece out of his jacket and pushed it inside the door. The Baldwin was a good lock, with good quality bolts and all, but he was simply better. He pushed the pins around and pulled the tongue with the short steel further in until he heard the familiar "click." Overall, not ten seconds after he had started he let himself in.
He was correct in his first assumption; he got it at the first step. Lauren's house really seemed like her safe haven. The house was much more...exquisite inside than outside, scarcely decorated with a few but very comfortable looking furniture; modern and elegant in a refined way. He walked around quickly to get a better feel of it, and after his first tour he was fairly...impressed with her taste in the decoration business.
When his appreciation faded, he got to the work. The house was registered to a false company under the name of Desna Rental, but a quick search had determined that the company was nothing than empty shell, and the man—or rather the woman—behind the curtain was no one other than the dirty detective he had in his pocket. She was smart, as he had known it from the first moment, smart enough buy herself a house in this part of the city where the rents weren't all too high neither too classy but enough to pass as respectful as a good neighborhood, with its close ties to Columbia University and its rather intellectual community.
Her chosen preference for accommodation was a bit of surprise at first, especially thinking of the life style she had been pursuing for a time, but when he remembered what Finch had said earlier about her, and when he saw the library at the corner of one-bedroom apartment, things started making a bit more sense.
Well, Finch would have appreciated it, John decided as he took an old copy of Pope, and turned its back in his hand as he narrowed his eyes at it. "Roll it with me again, Finch," he called his new—partner, "You said she was dropped out of Columbia, right?" He paused for a second, as his eyes moved to the right side of the library where a number of books in Law decorated the upper shelves, "In Law?"
"Correct," Finch confirmed, and started to retell, "Lauren Fusco. Born at 10 August 1979, orphaned at three." He paused for a second. "Moved to the system but lived only with one foster parents—Mr. and Mrs. Tompkins, in Bronx, until she left it for Columbia Law School." He paused again, commented with a tone that made John raise his eyebrow, "She was luckier than the most."
For a moment, he considered to dwell on the comment, but then let it go for another time. Finch was a mystery that John had decided to solve on his own terms. "Any reports of abuse?" he asked instead, placing the book its place.
"None of it," Finch answered, "The Tompkins fostered three others too, but nothing was raised. Leonard Thompkins died almost a decade ago—"
He interrupted Finch, "Of natural causes?"
"Yes," Finch affirmed, "Of cancer."
"Mrs. Tompkins still takes care of a young man; Brandon Richardson, age 15," Finch said for the last then halted as he only heard hitting key sounds. "She started at Colombia in 1995 with the courtesy of an athletic scholarship, but dropped it at her last year."
"Why?" John asked. So running was an old habit for her. "Is there anything in the records?"
"Well, for one thing, she lost her scholarship because she cheated," Finch answered, "there are mentions of a doping scandal."
He laughed. "Old habits die hard, huh?"
Finch didn't comment on that, but instead said, "Her records seem to be clean, but I'm digging further to see if there is anything out of the place or tampered. If there is really something that Detective Stills was using against her as leverage," he continued, the suspicion clear in his voice, "we will find it."
Fishing the little plastic marker out of his pocket, he nodded, with extreme certainty. "There is." In those regards, he scarcely got wrong.
Again, Finch chose not to comment, but asked, "Are you done with placing the bugs, Mr. Reese?"
He placed the bug in his hand on the top shelves, behind the thickest book. "Just started."
"Your plan seems rather—presumptive," Finch hesitantly said in his ear.
He shrugged in response, even though he knew the other man couldn't see it...probably. He turned around the house, placing another two in the places that weren't in the open too much, but also weren't in hidden too much, either. The trick was that to get her believe their authenticity. Too open in the sight would get her suspicious as she was evidently smart, and too much hidden would get them overlooked. No, Lauren was supposed to find them, believing she could find them by all herself so that she could feel at ease enough to behave like she always did while another set of too-well-hidden bugs continued to record everything she did.
"Mr. Reese," Finch called him in a few minutes after, just when he placed the round listening device inside her wardrobe, between a very bad knock off Louis Vuitton and two original Chanel. Appearances, it was all about appearances. Keep them always up on the front, and no one would care to look behind. "Our number is about to leave his office," Finch informed him.
He closed the wardrobe's door, and hastily left the apartment. Quickly he stepped down the stairs, and hailed a taxi back to the midtown. He got out of the car, throwing a fifty bill, and ran inside the office building in the Garment District. He saw the elevator's door closing as Bill Garner stepped inside with the other two at his heel. "Hold it," he called, half-running, half pushing his body over the already closing doors, then slipped inside it. He threw a half smile at Bill. "Almost missed it."
The door closed.
The man in the suit smiled.
Appearances, it was all about them.
The next morning John was on the prowl. When he had woken up, he had found himself bristling with an anticipation that emitted off of every pore in his body, the event of the last night in the elevator still fresh in his memory. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt like this, and if he had to be honest with himself he had missed it. The feeling was hard to describe, more profound than excitement, and nothing as frivolous as thrill seeking, but it had always been there, hidden just under the skin, the constant buzz in the ear. Perhaps, it was just a side effect of having a purpose.
Granted, his first investigation had become somewhat "inconclusive", but the day had just started, and unveiling the mystery behind his current...contractor wasn't the only mystery John was going to resolve that day. Leaning against the fence along the pier, John shifted his eyes at the new mystery in question, and looked at the young smiling girl in the pictures. So young, so happy she looked in the picture smiling for a moment John really didn't want to think she was dead, but still alive at somewhere. Her number had picked up. The odds were that it was just a glitch or something like that in the machine, but still he hoped.
"This is the last place Theresa Whitaker was seen alive," standing next to him stiffly, the eccentric billionaire started debriefing him, his eyes fixed ahead toward Bowery Bay, voice bare of emotion despite the tragedy it was going to unravel, "Two years ago, her father, Grant, takes the family for a weekend sail. No one comes home."
He frowned, shuffling through the documents in the file, "He was a real estate developer."
"Market crashed," Finch explained further, his eyes moving toward him briefly, "He was upside down on 14 properties. According to the police, he shot his wife and kids then turned the gun on himself."
His eyebrows drew further into his frown. "Says here they found the bodies."
"Just the parents and the 18 year old son," Finch said, "Theresa's body was never recovered."
"'Presumed dead.'" he read from the file, and nodded after a pause, "Well, it's a reasonable assumption." He looked at the billionaire. "Are you sure this isn't a sort of—mistake?" he asked.
Finch shook his head with a certainty that made him wonder even more about his—contractor. The faith he had for his machine seemed like absolute, never wavering, never questioned. That was enough disturbing as it was, but thinking of Finch, who had all of that paranoia and control issues, having this much faith in something, anything was even more disturbing. He knew possibly because it really took one to know one. "Police only see what they choose to look for," the eccentric man answered in his adamant faith like John had expected, "The machine sees almost everything. If the girl's number has come up, she must be alive."
He was still skeptical, though. "Then why hasn't she shown up by now? With the police or a relative?"
"I don't know," the other man confessed, "But if the machine is right and she's still alive, she won't be for long. Better find her."
John thought about it a second. There seemed to be only way to understand all of this. More information. "We need a police report on this," he said, closing the file in his hand, then smiled a half of a smile, "I'll talk to my new friend in the town."
His new friend really looked like she was already adapted to the changes in her life. Even though she was afraid that people might start looking for her, no one could say it from the way she carried herself. She walked in the corridor in that devil-may-care attitude that he had always seen her before; head high up smugly, shoulders defiantly squared, the whole life a challenge. He had to give her that, John decided; she knew exactly how to keep up the appearances. Or she was just quickly adapted. From the restroom he had hidden inside, he reached out and caught her at shoulders as she passed by. Even before she could open her mouth and started screaming, he twirled her around dragging inside, then threw her against the restroom's ceramic wall.
Her eyes widened only for a moment when he saw her, his hand stiffly pressed on her chest to keep her up against the wall. "Hello, Lauren."
The shock lasted only a second after that, and she quickly recuperated, a familiar suave smile appearing on her lips. "And just when I thought you've forgotten all about me," she greeted him, a mocking petulance in her voice.
He smiled back at her. "Hope springs eternal in the human breast."
She laughed. "Ah," she sighed dramatically, "Ah, a renaissance man—" She tilted her head aside, her eyes hawkishly prying at his, "You're full of surprises, Mr. Reese," she commented with a mock of fascination, then her tone got stiff. "How did you get inside?"
Her lips pulled up for a fraction as he showed at her the badge he had pinned at the back of his jacket. "Took it from your pal Stills, before I killed him...with your gun, and you dropped him in the Oyster Bay," he reminded her with the same mocking.
At that, she laughed silently, but he could see the strain in her tones as she fought over a grimace. Then she let out a breath, and fixed her eyes at him. "How can I be of assistance, Mr. Reese?" she asked with a tone of perfect professionalism. It was clear that this wasn't the first time she had done this dance, at whatever strings Stills had gotten her, her ties had been very strict. Finch had better find her connections to the dead detective fast.
"I need you pull up a file for me," he answered.
Just as he had expected, she didn't even blink, nor did she ask what it was. "That would take a while," she instead said, slipping aside out of his grip. "One cop disappears," she huffed in a mutter, crossing her arms over her chest, "and everyone suddenly starts—caring."
She didn't say it out loud, either, but the hidden meaning behind her words was very clear. He looked down at her. "You don't seem to have any problem."
"Yet," she retorted then shook her head with a small sigh that sounded almost genuine. "Just give it a few weeks," she said, "then you'll see what kind of company I will start having."
This time he only smiled at her. She had a point. Stills disappeared, and the rest of his gang gone, the detective was going to be the first person any...concerned party would want to have a talk with. The prospect didn't seem too much optimistic, but as of the moment, it wasn't his concern. "I'm sure you will think of something if it did, Lauren," he said, bored and disinterested, and fixed a mocking half smirk at her. "You're good at adjusting to new situations."
Instead of the sly retort he had expected, this time she only shook her head. "No, Mr. Reese, I'm just good at dealing with what I have. I got dealt a bad hand. But that's life, it happens. Some days you get a good hand, some days a bad one. Dealing with it is just the part of the game."
His words had fallen flat, but her words hit a point. Almost startled, he looked at her, but in the depths of her dark eyes, for a moment, he only saw Kara, and the same intensity and the same harsh indifference that only came when one played too long "the heartless".
April, 2006
His clothes were dirty, so were his hands. The clothes were easy to get rid of, just like everything he had, they were going to be dropped into a dumpster and forgotten, but hands were another matter. The death takes its toll, and its smell stinks, stings. He brought his hands up to his nose, and sniffed...and death smelled of blood... "Could you please stop sulking?" he heard her voice from his back, bored and not caring, "We still have an unfinished business that we need to take care of."
The blood fired in his veins, as the ghosts of death rose in his consciousness. He turned to her, his eyes fixed on to hers in a glare. She only sighed. "Stop it." Then she shook her head. "I'm getting sick of this..." she muttered, and her eyes held his glare, hers getting heated even more. "You said you'd do whatever it takes to protect our people," she hissed.
"Innocent lives," he hissed back, walking to her, "They don't mean anything to you, Kara?"
A bitter laugh in all its mocking escaped from her. "Good people bleed as easily as the bad ones, John," she said, walking to him even closer, "What did you expect?" she asked, her eyes narrowed in keen inquisitiveness, "No, seriously, what did you expect?" she asked again, "You must have known there were going to be—mistakes."
"Mistakes?" he asked back, his tone edged over a deadly zone, so close to getting "burned", but the image was still so fresh in his mind, and his look, the way he had looked at him while he died. "That's what you call them? Mistakes?"
Kara looked at him coldly, coated with a harsh indifference, her look as sharp as a razor. "I believe the correct term is the collateral damage." She took another step forward, "That was a mistake, John, and I guarantee you there will more," she said, her tone suddenly softening, "They're the part of the job."
"So am I supposed to get used to it?" he asked in a rasped whisper.
"No," she answered, "you're just supposed to deal with it. We can't save everyone, John." She let out a sigh, as she sat down on the bed. "I don't ask you to be heartless, John. I know it's an impossible task—" she continued, "I'm just asking you to find a way to stop it affecting your objectives."
His mind pulled back and twirled further in the years, just two days ago...
I don't have any friend. I don't have any family left either. Went around the world looking for bad guys, but there were plenty of you right here all along.
And the woman in front of him fell in the middle of somewhere between, perhaps just beside next to him. Perhaps she was like him, not a bad person, just a person with very bad decisions. Perhaps in the past there had been a point for her, too, a point in which if she could have opened her mouth and said the words, things would have been very, very different.
Wait for me.
But that was past, and what happened in the past has no part at the present. So he looked at her, and said, "Theresa Whitaker. Two years ago. Murder-suicide."
She only nodded back. "I'll look around."
She started walking to the door, but he caught her from her elbow. He pulled her back to him. "I need it today."
Her eyes narrowed, as her voice turned into a hiss. "You're pushing it too much."
"Deal with it," he said, before leaving, "it's the part of the game, too."
"Dealing with it," was inspired by one of my fellow author friend McJunker's stories. I could say "read it" but he hasn't posted it yet.
"Hope springs eternal in the human breast," was inspired from there, too, but it's actually a verse from Pope.
