Title: Ain't Life Grand

Chapter 3: She Mine

Disclaimer: I own nothing. I need to add that I don't own the Emerson analogy, and its interpretation was not modified by me, but by Meg Cabot in her Queen of Babble series.

A/N: Thank you to Anybody Anywhere for input, reassurance, and the perspective of someone who isn't inside my head. Once again, thank you for the reviews. There will be more authors' notes (LJ).

No matter how brilliantly an idea is stated, we will not really be moved unless we have already half-thought of it ourselves. –Mignon McLaughlin [The Neurotic's Notebook]

She Mine

On Tuesday morning, Rory walk through the newsroom with a cup of coffee in each hand. When she reached her desk, she handed one cup over to Kyle. Call it her peace offering of choice.

"Thanks," he said as he took a sip.

"No problem," Rory said as she sat down. "All right. What can you tell me about Courtney Rivers?"

"She died in a fire last Thursday."

"That's potentially right. She was actually reported missing yesterday. What else do you know?"

"Well, uh, the building was on Sixth Avenue."

"Okay," Rory said slowly. "Anything else?"

"Not really," Kyle said, somewhat guiltily.

Rory gave him a deadpanned look. She gave her head a mental shake. "That's all right," she said patiently. "We can look in public records. You can find all kinds of stuff there. You wouldn't believe what people could find out about you without knowing you."

"Really?" he asked, brightening.

"Really," she said nicely. "So grab your notebook, we're getting out of here." She took her own advice by putting her phone into her messenger bag and putting the strap over her shoulder. She picked up her coffee and they headed out of the newsroom.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A couple hours later, Tristan was driving north on Twelfth Avenue, he could see the Hudson River to his left. After he continued onto Riverside Drive, his cell phone rang. From the passenger seat, Mark turned the radio down.

"DuGrey," Tristan answered.

"Hey," Rory said, "do you guys have a positive ID for the body yet?"

"No. We're still waiting on the lab results."

"Okay. Hopefully it's Courtney Rivers. If not, we're going to have to recall yesterday's article."

"We won't look very good either."

"Are we terrible people for hoping someone is dead—just so we won't look bad?"

"Yes."

"Being self-aware doesn't make me feel any better, either," Rory added. "Anyway, we found in public records that Courtney has a daughter."

"We? Who is this 'we' you speak of?" Tristan asked

"Kyle and I," Rory answered. "Kyle and I are doing research at court."

"Ah, you've embraced your partner-in-crime-reporting, then?"

"For the time being."

"I see. Anyway, yes, Courtney Rivers has a daughter. The kid's father is actually the one who reported her missing yesterday."

"Have you talked to him yet?"

"We're on our way to do so now."

"Court records say they're in the middle of a custody battle."

"Court records don't lie."

"That's a motive," Rory commented. "Eliminating the competition is easier than fighting the good fight."

"Thanks Doll Face, I'll add that theory to my notes," Tristan said dryly. "What would I do without you?"

"Probably be completely lost."

"Probably," he agreed with a half-smile. He turned into a lot that was half full. He said good bye and ended the call as he parked.

The detectives go out and walked through a grassy park. They made their way over to a playground, where parents were watching their children. Tristan and Mark approached a man sitting on a bench. He was of medium build and had dirty blonde hair. He was watching a little girl with dark brown hair as she spun around on the merry-go-round. He looked up at the two men when they showed him their badges.

"Greg Parks?" Mark asked.

The man nodded. "Yeah, that's me. Are you guys investigating Courtney's disappearance?"

"Yes," Tristan answered. "What can you tell us about the last time you saw her?"

"It was over a week ago. She gets Janie on the weekends," he explained, nodding to the little girl. "I got a call from her school Friday afternoon. Courtney was supposed to pick Janie up, but she hadn't shown. So I went and got her. I stopped by her place and I tried to call her, but she never picked up. So I called the police yesterday."

"What were you doing Thursday, around noon?" Tristan asked.

"I was at work, why?"

"Have you read the Daily News lately?"

Greg shook his head. "No."

Tristan produced a picture of their burn victim. "There was a fire in Midtown last Thursday. Does this look like Courtney?"

The man took a minute to look at the burned woman. He nodded slowly. "I think that's her. I recognize that necklace she has on. Courtney has one just like that."

"We'll still need you to stop by the morgue to take a look in person," Mark told him. "The two of you used to be in a relationship at some point?"

"Yes, it was six years ago. We were never married though. We stayed together for a few months after Janie was born, but we broke up."

"Why?"

"I don't think Courtney was ready to be a mom. She was still pretty young. I think she tried, but she wasn't quite responsible enough. And I wouldn't call her reliable."

"We understand you're trying to get full custody of your daughter," Mark commented.

"Yeah. I thought a kid should have both parents in her life, so we always split the time with her. But lately, I think Courtney's been a bad influence."

"What do you mean by that?" Tristan asked.

"Have you been to her work yet?" Greg asked as his answer.

The detectives shook their heads in the negative.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Around eleven o'clock, Rory was back at her desk in the newsroom. She was reading through the information she and Kyle had acquired that morning when she had been interrupted by her cell phone. Currently, she was wrapping up the conversation.

"All right Grandpa, let me call and ask him. I'll see you in about an hour," she said, ending the call. She then dialed Tristan.

"You're awfully needy today," he said as his greeting.

"That's only partly true. Earlier I was calling for business, this time it's personal."

"Oh, okay. I like that better anyway."

"I just got off the phone with Grandpa," Rory explained. "He's in town on business and wants to have lunch with me. I told him that you get top billing on Tuesdays, and he told me not to change my plans, that you should come too."

"Oh," Tristan said, not very enthusiastically. "That was nice of him."

"Yeah, so is it all right if he comes along?"

"Sure. But do I have to come along then?"

"Uh, I guess not. He said he'd love to see both of us though. You don't want to have lunch with Grandpa?"

"That's not it. It's just that I'm probably one Friday night dinner and two golf games away from offering to be his personal attorney—at no charge. And I'm just not ready to make that kind of commitment to him yet."

Rory laughed a little. "Oh, okay. I can tell him you have to work. He'll find your dedication admirable."

"Good. Do that. And tell him I said hi."

"Will do," she said. She could hear background noise on Tristan's end. "Where are you?"

"Work."

"I know, but where has work taken you today?"

"Uh . . . I'd rather not say."

She listened closely and could make out the thumping of a beat. "Are you at a strip club or something?"

Tristan did not respond immediately.

"Oh my God. You're at a strip club?"

"It's a gentleman's club," he corrected.

"Uh yeah. If I hear hoof beats, I don't call it a zebra," she said. "I thought you didn't want to be a groomsman. It sounds like you're taking the bachelor party seriously all of a sudden."

"Hey, I'm here for work, I swear," Tristan insisted.

"Why?"

"Courtney Rivers works here. Or worked here."

"She was a stripper?"

"I think they prefer the term exotic dancer."

"I'll refer you to my previous statement about zebras," she said with a smile.

"Come one, do you really think I want to be at a strip club in the middle of a Tuesday?" he asked. "It's not like I'm enjoying myself here."

"Well I'm sure that can change. Pull up a seat and have a drink. I'm sure that'll make it more pleasurable," she said with a giggle. "Oh boy, do you have it made with your job or what?"

"Laugh it up," he said. "Hey, do you think you could leave this part out when you're at lunch?"

"Why? I'm sure Grandpa will understand that going to a gentleman's club in the middle of the day is just a part of being devoted to your job."

"I'm not sure he'll see it that way."

"Okay, I'll make a deal. As long as Grandpa doesn't ask me directly if you're at a strip club, I won't tell him."

"That sounds fair."

"But he if asks, 'is Tristan at a strip club—'"

"Then you'll have no choice but to say yes."

"Correct. Because I can't lie."

Tristan sighed heavily. "I need to go."

"Right, you have to get back to work," she said with a grin.

"You better not be using air quotes as you say that."

"I would never," Rory said. "Oh hey, do you need some singles? I could borrow you some, if you're out."

The line went dead. Rory looked down at her phone and laughed some more.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Tristan cringed as he hung up on Rory and pocketed his cell phone. "It's like she knew I was here," he told Mark.

They were standing in the back of a dimly lit lounge area. They walked toward the front of the club and took a seat close to the stage. It was unoccupied at the moment, though there were two poles that went from the floor to the ceiling. The detectives were surprised to see that the club wasn't empty, even though it was the middle of the week—and a work day, no less. Maybe the club had a good lunch menu, Tristan reasoned.

When a tall, scantily clad woman approached them to take their drink orders, they pulled out their badges for her to see.

"We're not doing anything illegal here," the woman said defensively.

"That isn't why we're here," Mark said reassuringly. "Do you know Courtney Rivers?"

"Sure. She works here. She's one of the dancers," the woman answered, nodding at the stage. Then she remembered she was talking with cops. "Is she in trouble or something?"

Tristan nodded. "She was reported missing yesterday morning. When was the last time you saw her?"

"Thursday morning. She left for lunch and she never came back. No one's been able to get a hold of her since."

"Did she tell anyone where she was going?"

The woman shrugged. "Just lunch, I think."

"Did anyone have a problem with her?" Tristan asked.

"Not that I know of. She gets along fine with everyone here."

"Do you know anything about her relationship with Greg Parks?"

"They have a kid together. I think they've been okay, considering they're fighting over custody. She hasn't mentioned them arguing or anything."

"Has she been seeing anyone?" Mark asked.

"Not lately. But she used to date some guy. They split about a month ago."

"Do you know his name?"

"Paul something or other," the waitress answered.

"Did she know an Erika Hart?" Tristan asked.

"I have no idea. But now that you mention it, Hart sounds familiar. That might have been Paul's last name."

"Do you know why they broke up?"

"No, she didn't tell me. Sorry."

"That's okay. Could we speak with your manager?" Stevenson asked.

"Sure, I'll go get him. Are you sure you don't want something to drink?"

"No thanks," Tristan said.

The detectives spent two hours at the club, speaking with the manager and the other girls who worked there. Most confirmed the waitress's story and didn't know where Courtney had slipped off to the previous Thursday.

When they left, Tristan addressed his partner, "Let's go get Paul Hart and see if he changes his tune."

Mark checked his watch. "Right now?" he asked as they walked in the direction of Tristan's car.

Tristan shrugged as he unlocked the doors. "Sure, why not? I'm not in a hurry to go anywhere. Rory's having lunch with her grandfather today."

"Just because your lunch plans fell through doesn't mean mine did too," Mark reminded him.

Tristan started the car and put his seat belt on. "Oh, what are your big plans?"

"I didn't say they were big."

"Walking the dog then?"

"If you must know, yes."

"Fine. We'll pick this up after lunch."

"Would you like to come along? I wouldn't want you to get lonely, sitting by yourself for a whole hour."

"All right, if you insist," Tristan answered as he started driving back in the direction of the Upper West Side.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A short while later, Tristan and Mark were walking with a golden retriever through a heavily populated—highly popular—Manhattan park. As they walked from a shaded area to one in the sunlight, Tristan put his sunglasses on.

"I can't believe you come to Central Park," he commented as he rolled up his sleeves in an attempt to cool off.

"Why?"

"Because it's like work. If I want to work during lunch, I just skip the break."

"It's not always bad," Mark said. "It's better in the morning, before all the people get here. Plus, there are Park Police."

"Sure. But are they around when you need them?"

"They can be," Mark answered. "But just to be safe, I put them on speed dial."

"I see. Oh look," Tristan said pleasantly, nodding over to some benches under the shade of a few trees. "What do you suppose those guys are smoking?"

Mark looked over. "I'm not sure. But they're definitely as high as kites."

Tristan nodded. "Ah, Central Park," he said in sarcastic admiration.

"It's like a slice of New York City, right here in one spot," Mark reasoned.

"I guess. So tell me, Charlie Brown," Tristan started, "how does Snoopy here feel about the little red headed girl coming to live with you guys?" he asked, nodding down at the dog, who stopped to sniff at some bushes at the border of the sidewalk.

"He'll be fine," Mark answered. "I have a better question. What's the deal with Rory's grandfather? You don't like him?"

"I like him just fine," Tristan replied with a shrug as they resumed their walk.

"So he's the one who doesn't like you?"

"Oh no. He likes me. My last name is DuGrey and I went to Yale. He really doesn't have a choice but to like me."

"That's how it works, huh?"

Tristan nodded. "Pretty much."

"Why didn't you want to go to lunch then?"

"Because every time I'm around him, I start to suck up. I can't control myself."

"Why suck up if he already likes you?"

Tristan shook his head and shrugged. "I wish I knew."

"I knew why I was sucking up to Hannah's dad."

"Why?"

Mark looked at his partner in disbelief. "Because I was going to take his little girl away from him and wanted him to be okay with it."

"Oh," Tristan said with a frown. "That isn't what I'm doing."

"It isn't?"

"No."

Mark paused before asking, "Why not?"

"Because I'm not going to take Rory away from anyone," Tristan said as they ducked under a low hanging branch.

"Why not?"

"Why do you keep asking that?"

"Because I can't figure you out."

"Good. Maybe that's a sign that you should stop trying."

"Do you think you can do better or something?" Mark asked. He yanked on the leash to prevent the dog from chasing after a squirrel.

Tristan scowled at him. "I don't think that. I could do a lot worse. In fact, I have done a lot worse."

"Of course you can do worse," Mark reprimanded. "We're men. We do worse ninety-nine percent of the time. Finding that one percent worth keeping is like finding a needle in a hay stack. If you manage to find it, you have to play your cards right if you want to hold onto it."

"I'm not as stupid as you think I am," Tristan said impatiently. "I know how to play my cards."

"You do?" Mark asked doubtfully.

"Yes. Has it ever occurred to you that my cards are different from yours?"

"No."

"Well they are."

Mark considered his partner for a moment. "I feel obligated to tell you that you're wrong."

"I am not wrong. Not all women want a sparkly ring," Tristan explained with a tone of authority on the subject.

"What do they want? I'm dying to know."

"A career. Some have high professional goals."

"Sure. But even those women want to get married sooner or later."

"Yeah, later."

"I take it these women include Rory?"

"Yes."

"She told you this?"

"No."

"So you read minds?"

"No."

"Then how do you know?"

"I know because her college boyfriend proposed to her when she graduated from Yale. You want to take a guess at how that worked out for him?"

"Well she's with you. So I guess she either said no, or she has questionable morals."

"She told him no. And they are no longer together. Although, she didn't want to break up," Tristan explained.

Mark nodded. "Asking in the first place is daunting. A guy would have to swallow his pride to stay with a girl after that kind of rejection."

"I guess," Tristan agreed as they walked passed Delacorte Theater, which advertised Shakespeare in the Park. He wondered what play was currently on the schedule. Maybe Rory would want to go over the weekend. He continued, "The guy is a newspaper mogul, too. His family owns a bunch of papers all over."

"Ah, a newspaper man with a newspaper woman. The perfect couple," Mark said, in a lightly insidious tone.

Tristan clenched his jaw for a moment before responding. "Sure. Perfect," he said flatly. "So, see? I'm right and you're wrong. Rory doesn't want to get married. Not even when it's perfect."

"No," Mark argued as they stopped to pause in the shade. "Ten years ago she didn't marry some other guy."

"So?"

"So it isn't the same. She thinks about getting married. And buckle up my friend, because—for some reason—she thinks about marrying you."

"Maybe hypothetically," Tristan objected. They continued walking. "But that isn't real. It's hypothetical. And hypothetical is just hypothetical."

"Say hypothetical one more time," Mark requested.

Tristan shook his head. "It doesn't matter. She imagined marrying the newspaper guy. But she still told him no when he asked."

"Because she wanted to work," Mark stated, to clarify.

"Mm-hmm. He wanted to get married and go live in California. He planned out their future and apparently wasn't patient enough to wait for her to establish her career first," Tristan reasoned. "He was an idiot for pressing her to choose. But it worked in my favor, so I can't get too upset over it."

Mark took a moment to process. "Ah."

"What 'ah'? That was a loaded 'ah'."

"She wants to work and you aren't going to tie her down," he said slowly.

"Right."

"Or ask her to do anything at the cost of her career. Like picking black over white," he finished contemplatively as he remembered what Tristan had said the day before. "Is this the grey area you live in?"

Tristan nodded.

"You're an idiot."

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are, if you're trying to right that guy's wrong."

"What?"

"If you want to learn from someone else's mistake, that's fine. But you're still an idiot."

"I am not," Tristan insisted. He continued, with conviction, "Rory wants to be a foreign correspondent. It's her life goal and she hasn't achieved it yet."

"So, what," Mark said, "the Daily News is okay for now, but she's just waiting for something better to come along?"

Tristan shrugged. "Yeah. Something like that."

"Heck, maybe she'll even move on to someone better, too. You're just the guy who keeps her company for now, but someone else will do the job for the long haul. That's big of you, to accept it and be at peace."

"I didn't say that," Tristan muttered, glaring down at the concrete sidewalk.

"So when she gets the big correspondence job, that's it? You're dumping her?" Mark asked, bluntly getting down to business.

"No," Tristan answered. "I'll probably get her a Kevlar vest though."

"They make those for the press," Mark commented. "So you're planning on her dumping you then?"

"No," Tristan said slowly. "But I don't think I'd get a say in that scenario."

"Fair enough. Would you make her stay here?"

"Obviously not," he scoffed. "Haven't you been listening?"

"Then when is the 'perfect' time to seal the deal?" Mark pressed on. "When she's retired? If you didn't already know, women and men are different. There are specific things women can't do when they're older."

Tristan pondered this and didn't say anything.

Mark went on, "You've over thought the situation."

"That's not true. I've given it just the right amount of thought."

Mark shook his head. "Not about the right thing. You only took away half of the lesson—and the wrong half."

"What's the right half then?"

"Maybe it's not just a timing issue."

"Then what is it?"

"Tell me, do you think you're the wagon or the star?" Mark inquired. "Your answer makes a big difference."

Tristan—confused—replied, "I'm a person."

"Have you ever heard about hitching your wagon to a star?"

He shrugged. "Set high goals for yourself?"

"Yeah, that's what Emerson was talking about. But I'm applying it to you differently, so stay with me here. The star obviously gets the glory, but the wagon shouldn't care if the star is worth it. So figure out who the star is."

Tristan frowned in thought. "Are you being allegorical? I can't understand you when you talk in riddles."

"Surely your big Harvard brain can handle it."

"Can't you just tell me the answer?" Tristan asked, somewhat distracted at this point. His eyes scanned the park and he suspiciously watched a guy up ahead on the sidewalk. He was wearing a grey hoodie. Tristan thought it was too damned hot for that kind of attire.

"No," Mark replied. "Only you can answer. Plus, you'll feel better if you work it out for yourself."

"But what if I choose wrong?" Tristan watched the man in the hoodie quickly walk beside a woman with a purse hanging from her shoulder.

"Then you fix it. It's called compromise. Adults do it every day."

They had stopped again, this time so the dog could do his business. The woman up ahead was yelling and looking around for help, as the man in the hoodie had just grabbed her purse.

Tristan looked around. "Where are those Park Police you mentioned?"

Mark looked over his shoulder. "They should be here somewhere."

"Maybe you should give them a call," Tristan said before he sprinted off toward the bag-snatcher.

He raced past the woman and sped up as he got closer to the mugger. When he caught up with the guy, Tristan grabbed his shoulder and turned him around. They collided and tumbled over into the grass. The guy struggled under Tristan.

"Stop. Police," he said, right as the mugger thrust his fist at his nose.

"You just hit the wrong guy," he said.

He quickly grabbed a pair of handcuffs from his belt and put one of the bracelets on the man's wrist. He got up and dragged the culprit with him. He walked to a tree and tossed the empty cuff over a high branch. Then, Tristan fitted the other bracelet onto the man's other wrist. The high branch forced him to stand on his toes.

"Couldn't you use a lower branch?" he complained to the detective.

"I don't see any lower ones," Tristan answered absentmindedly, ignoring the many lower branches as he wiped the sweat from his brow with his shirt sleeve.

He quickly patted the guy down and didn't find any weapons. He did, however, take the man's wallet from his back pocket to check his ID. "Reuben Jones, you are under arrest for assaulting a police officer. And for theft," Tristan said before continuing to read the suspect his Miranda rights.

"Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?" he asked in an almost bored sounding voice.

"Yes," the criminal answered sourly.

"Fantastic." He examined the bridge of his sunglasses, to see if they were damaged when he got hit. Seeing that they were fine, he put them back on.

The victim caught up to them then and Tristan handed over her purse. "Here you go, ma'am."

"Thank you so much. Are you the police?"

"Yup. You can press charges if you want," he told the woman before looking at Reuben. "I'm thinking about doing so."

Mark and his golden retriever made their way over them. He was accompanied by two uniformed Park Police officers. They looked from the apprehended man to Tristan.

"Did you arrest him?" one of the uniforms asked.

Tristan nodded. "Yeah. I'd have waited for you to do it, but he took a swing at me."

The officer nodded curtly. "I see. We'll take it from here. I'll forward the paperwork on to you, Detective."

Tristan grimaced and mentally kicked himself. "Damn it."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later that afternoon, Rory was at her desk again. She had just gotten off the phone with the medical examiner. Courtney Rivers was confirmed as the dead body from the fire. Before Rory could transition to another task, her phone rang.

"Newsroom," she answered.

There was a second of silence before the caller spoke. "Yes, this is Officer Jack Young. I have an update about the Rivers homicide. Is this the woman reporting the story?"

Rory's heart sped up—this was the possible leak, and he wanted to talk to her. She tried to play it cool. "Yes. I think you spoke with my colleague over the weekend," she said as she quickly jotted down the man's name.

"Yes, the kid."

"Would you rather talk to him instead?"

"Actually, no. I'd rather talk to you."

Rory thought the 'officer' sounded oddly familiar. Maybe he was a real cop after all. She'd talked to several over the years. "Have we met before?"

"No, I don't think so," he answered.

"Oh, my mistake. So, what can you tell me about the murder?"

"We are looking into Paul Hart."

"Erika's brother?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Is he a suspect?"

"Yes."

"Can you tell me why you're looking into him? I didn't think he knew Courtney."

"He wasn't being truthful."

"Oh, I see," she said. "Since I haven't met you in person, do you think you could give me your badge number? I like to make sure my sources are reliable."

"I would love to give you that information," Young said smoothly.

Rory wrote down the number carefully. She was a bit disappointed that the man agreed to it so quickly. If he wasn't who he said he was, he might have been more hesitant.

"Your colleague wasn't as interested in checking me out," Young commented.

"Oh?" Rory asked. "He said you gave him your name."

"I did. He didn't ask for a badge number. But I don't think he'd have done anything with it anyway," Young said suggestively.

Rory wondered what was going on. It seemed fishy. "Well, I'll be sure to look into it," she said reassuringly. "Before I let you go, can you tell me your role in the investigation?"

He did hesitate this time, but only a second. "I'm under the detectives in charge. I'm helping them."

Rory was pretty sure she found his handicap. However, she didn't let on. "That makes sense. Thanks for the update," she said as they both hung up.

She pressed the receiver on her phone and called a non-emergency phone number.

"New York Police Department, how can I help you?" the dispatcher answered.

"Hi, I want the name of an officer, I have his badge number," Rory explained before she read off the number she had written down. She waited patiently while the dispatcher ran the number.

"That badge number is no longer in use," the woman answered.

Rory felt a wave of triumph. "Can you tell me who it used to belong to?"

"An Officer Young," the woman said.

The wave felt a little less triumphant, and a little more confused. "Thank you," Rory said before hanging up.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

It was nearly the end of the day when Tristan and Mark returned to the twenty-first precinct. They didn't get to talk to Paul Hart again. After the body was positively IDed as Courtney Rivers, they had gone to search her apartment.

Tristan was frowning down at a form on his desk. Those Park Police sure didn't waste any time in passing on the paperwork. He was about to pick up a pen to get started, but something better caught his attention.

Rory walked into the room and approached him. She had a coffee drink in one hand, and it didn't look like she'd had any of it. When she was close enough, he could that see she looked a bit timid. However, when she noticed his face, her expression changed to concern. She wore knit brows when she sat down next to his desk.

Before she could comment though, he addressed her, "Mary, Mary quite contrary. How does your garden grow?"

"I've never had much of a green thumb," she answered.

"That isn't how you're supposed to respond."

"What, you don't have to do mine, but I have to do yours?"

He grinned and nodded. "Yes."

Rory shook her head. "What happened to your eye?" She tried to reach toward it as she asked, but he flinched and jerked his head away.

"I went to Central Park with Stevenson for his dog walk," Tristan answered. He'd checked himself out in the rearview mirror before coming up to the third floor of the precinct. His eye was now a shade of purple.

"You knew you'd just end up working," she reminded him.

"I know," he said. "I had to chase down a mugger."

"You had to?"

"No one else was. So yes."

"Do you ever think before you chase after people?"

"Sure," Mark answered for his partner. "Sometimes he even thinks too much," he added evocatively.

Tristan knew he wasn't referring to criminals. He narrowed his eyes and felt the urge to flip Mark the bird. But Rory was there, so he settled with scratching his nose with his middle finger.

Rory gave him a thoughtful look before twisting around in Mark's direction. "Do you ever get tired of him hogging the spotlight?"

"What?" Tristan asked. "I don't do that."

Rory turned back to him. "Really?" she asked in disbelief. "I know there can only be one alpha male, but you've been taking it really seriously lately."

"Yeah," Mark said. "He likes to be the center of attention. You should have seen that mugger today. DuGrey had him hanging from a tree in the middle of the park."

Tristan looked across the desks to his partner with furrowed brows. That phrase 'center of attention' concerned him. Was he getting the answer to the question posed to him earlier that day? That didn't seem likely. He was supposed to figure it out himself. But if it was the answer, was it right or wrong? He was supposed to fix it, if it was wrong.

Mark saw the wheels turning in Tristan's head, so he tried to help him out. "Don't worry. You're a good partner, so I reckon you're worth the trouble."

"He didn't make you shoot at anything this time, did he?" Rory asked.

Mark grinned and shook his head in answer.

She looked back at Tristan again. "You're lucky to have such a modest partner."

"Oh. Yeah," he said, still unsure of himself. He nodded at the iced coffee she'd brought and changed the subject. "What do you have there?"

She put the cup on his desk and pushed it over to him. "I have to tell you something. It might make you mad, so I brought it for you."

"Why?" he asked, frowning down at the coffee.

"Isn't that what we're doing? You make me mad and then bring me coffee to smooth things over," she reasoned. "So I brought you coffee this time, since I might make you mad in a minute here."

"I brought you coffee because it's your favorite thing."

"Oh. That's what you were doing?"

"Mm-hmm."

"And it isn't everyone's favorite thing?"

He shook his head. "No. You brought your favorite thing to placate me."

"Well what's your favorite thing then?" she asked, confused that coffee wasn't the answer.

He gave her a blank stare.

"Oh. Right. I know what your favorite thing is. We can do that later."

"I'll hold you to that," Tristan said. "So what's going to make me mad?"

"Well, today someone called me with an update on your case."

"Someone?"

She nodded. "Yes. Someone who isn't you—Kyle's source. But I'm not going to write what he said," she added quickly.

"And what did he say this time?"

"That the police are looking into Paul Hart. But that's wrong, isn't it? You already talked to him last week. Didn't you?"

"We did," Tristan said slowly. "But we're going to talk with him again first thing tomorrow."

"You are? Why?" Rory asked in disbelief.

"Courtney Rivers had a boyfriend a month ago. According to her, um, colleagues, it was Hart."

"Oh," Rory said. She sat in thought for a minute. Then she asked, "Aren't you going to ask for a name?"

"Whose name?"

"The mysterious source. I have a name. Although I don't think he is who he says he is."

Tristan shook his head. "You won't say, no matter how nicely I ask."

"But doesn't that make you mad?"

He shook his head again. "I'm not mad." He uncapped a pen and started filling out the form.

"You're sure?"

"Yup," he answered shortly. "But if it makes you feel better, I didn't say I was happy about it."

"Okay."

He slid the coffee back over to her. "You can have it."

"Oh. Thanks," she said before taking a sip.

"I suppose congratulations are in order," he said. "It looks like the source wanted to talk to you after all."

"Yeah, I guess so," Rory agreed. "I'm glad you aren't mad, because I think I'm going to keep talking to him."

Tristan put his pen down and looked back at her. Apparently they weren't finished with the conversation. "What?"

"He said he's a cop—and even had a badge. I'm pretty sure he's lying, but he seems to know inside information. Maybe he knows something that will help your investigation."

"So let me get this straight. You're turning the source into an informant?"

"Sort of. I just want to help you. If someone knows something that you don't, you can look into it."

Tristan sighed and put his hand to the bridge of his nose. He forgot about his black eye and winced in pain. He put his hand back down. "Remember yesterday? I told you to be careful. You don't know who this guy is or why he knows stuff."

"I know. And I will," Rory said.

He picked his pen back up and looked down.

"That's it?" she asked. "That argument worked? I didn't think I would successfully lawyer you with that defense."

"Oh you didn't. I just have a feeling you're going to do whatever you want, regardless," he said, glancing back at her.

"Probably. I have a hard head."

"Mm-hmm."

She stood up. "Well, I'm finished for the day. How about you?"

He tapped the document his desk with his pen. "I will be after I fill this out."

"All right. I'll see you in a little while then. I'm going to go buy a bag of frozen peas."

"Can we have something else? I don't feel like peas tonight."

Mark shook his head. "They're for your eye, genius."

"Oh. Right. I knew that." Tristan looked back up at Rory. "I won't be long."

She nodded and walked out of the precinct.

Mark sighed tiredly and stood. "I'm going to head out too." However, he didn't turn to go. "Hey, don't do anything stupid."

"Why would I do something stupid?" Tristan asked without looking up. He put his reading glasses on to help his tired eyes see better.

"Because of the stuff we talked about earlier—in the park. I didn't mean to psych you out or anything. Don't do anything you aren't ready for."

"I'm not psyched out," Tristan said. "You haven't peer pressured me into getting married."

"Good. And hey, marriage isn't for everyone. Maybe it isn't for you," Mark said. "But you should find out if all the assumptions you've been holding onto are really true."

"Mm-hmm," Tristan muttered.

This response didn't make Mark feel better, but he turned to go anyway.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

The next day, Rory walked out of the conference room with the rest of her colleagues. They were just released from the weekly staff meeting. Itching to find out who the mysterious source was, Rory skipped her morning coffee and went straight to her desk.

She thought about how unused badges were sometimes collected and traded. So her first priority was to find out if it involved a paper trail. She worked diligently through the rest of the morning, but it garnered few results. Around noon, she sat back and sighed in frustration. There was no way she was going to find out who got their hands on an old badge.

She moved the mouse around on her computer screen. Then a much more obvious idea came to her. "Duh," she said, kicking herself. She was spending so much time trying to figure out who had the badge now, she'd ignored doing research on who Jack Young was.

She went to Google and typed the officer's name into the search engine. Several newspaper articles popped up from six years earlier. She found a piece written by a Daily News crime reporter—someone who no longer worked there, just her luck.

The article included a picture of Jack Young. There was also a story about how he'd been killed in the line of duty. It appeared that they were dealing with a ghost.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Meanwhile, at the precinct, Tristan and Mark were questioning Paul Hart again. They were in one of the interrogation rooms, sitting at the table. Mark set the picture of Courtney Rivers in front of him for a second time.

"We're going to need the truth this time," he said. "Who is this?"

Paul looked down tepidly. "I already said, I don't know who that is."

Tristan slapped his hand down on the table impatiently, which made Paul jump. "Stop lying. We know you had a girlfriend a month ago. And we know you used to go to your sister's with a girl."

"Is this the girl?" Mark asked.

Paul averted his gaze guiltily. "Yeah. I used to date Courtney."

"Why did you keep telling us otherwise, then?" Tristan asked.

The man looked at them, wearing a frightened expression. "Because then you would think that I killed her. And I didn't!"

Tristan leaned in a little and waved his hand toward himself for Paul to come closer—not that he did. "You want to know a secret? Lying to the police doesn't make you look innocent."

"Quite the opposite," Mark agreed. "In fact, it ruins your credibility with us."

Tristan leaned back in his chair then and crossed his arms. "You're lucky we're such nice guys. We're going to give you the opportunity to tell the truth. So start talking."

"All right," Paul said, staring down at the table. "I used to date Courtney."

"How long did you date?" Mark asked.

"A few months. But she has a daughter and I'm not ready for all that. I'm still young, a kid is too heavy for me. So we broke up a month ago."

"You broke up with her?" Tristan asked.

"Yeah."

"Why was she in your sister's apartment last week?"

Paul shrugged. "I'm not sure. She wasn't there with me. I was at work."

"Did she have the extra key that you said you lost?" Stevenson asked.

The man shrugged again. "I don't know. Maybe," he said before hesitating a moment. "I did used to take her there sometimes—when my sister was out. You were right," he said, looking at Mark. "It can get crowded with two roommates. I just went there for some privacy."

"Are you sure you didn't break up with her over her job?" Tristan asked. "That kind of occupation could make a guy jealous."

Paul looked at the detective with a confused expression. "Waitressing?"

Tristan gave the man a piteous look. "She told you she was a waitress?"

Paul nodded.

"She lied to you, man."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later that afternoon, Rory was still at her desk, learning all she could from newspaper articles about Jack Young and how he'd died. She hadn't even stopped to eat lunch, she was so engrossed in her task. When she heard her cell phone ring, she absentmindedly picked it up to answer.

"Hello?"

"Hello, this is Officer Young again."

Rory didn't say anything. Her heart sped up considerably. But not from any kind of excitement. She suddenly didn't care about any information this 'cop' had. He'd just called her cell phone. It was a private—unlisted—number. One that she didn't give out to everybody and anybody.

She took a deep breath and tried to be nonchalant. "Oh. Hi, Officer." It was all she could get out in her terrified state. She concentrated on getting her pulse to slow down. She remembered the slip up the 'officer' had made the day before and decided to press the issue. "Can you tell me more specifically what your role is in the homicide case?"

"Like I said, I'm helping the detectives."

"Helping?"

"Yeah, providing support."

"That must be a drag, getting bossed around by a couple detectives," she said. "Especially since some act like they're really hot stuff."

"Yeah, that's true enough," Young agreed.

Rory had him where she wanted, so she pounced. "Did you know that detectives can't actually tell anyone what to do?"

"What?" Young asked. "Yes they can."

Rory shook her head adamantly, though no one could see. "No, they can't. They get paid as well as some supervisors, but no one is under them. They're only responsible for themselves."

"Oh—well," Young stuttered.

"Would you like to try again?" she asked forcefully, gaining confidence. She even forgot to be scared about someone calling her personal phone. "Who are you really?"

"I told you. Officer—"

Rory shook her head again. "No you're not. Officer Jack Young died six years ago in the line of duty."

For some reason, this information didn't deter the caller. To Rory's surprise, it had the opposite effect. "Tell me more about that," he requested.

"What?"

"How did I die?"

"Okay, first off, you aren't a ghost. Second, the real Officer Young was killed when he responded to a robbery at a jewelry store."

"By whom?"

"One of the buglers—Jeff Levin—shot you. I mean, he shot Officer Young."

"But did he?" the caller asked.

"Well yeah." Now Rory didn't know what to think. "That's who the jury convicted."

"Maybe they got it wrong," he said. "It's been known to happen."

Rory was about to question this, but the line went dead. She looked down at her cell phone and clicked around to go to her list of received calls. Unfortunately, the man had blocked his number. She tapped her foot impatiently, not sure what to do. She probably needed to report the incident to someone. And 'someone' was not going to be happy.

First things first though, she thought, as she looked over at her co-worker. "Kyle, don't talk to Jack Young anymore." She started to get up.

"Why not?" Kyle asked. "Hey, how do you know his name?"

"Because he called and told me. Take a look," she said, nodding at her computer screen. She grabbed a printout and got up. She determinedly went to her editor's office and tapped on the door.

"What do you need?" James asked as she took a seat across from him.

"I want off the case," she told him.

"What?"

She nodded. "I want off the Rivers homicide case."

He frowned at her in confusion. "Why?"

"Because of this," she said, slapping the article with the picture of the fallen officer.

"Who's that?" James asked, glancing down.

"That is Kyle's source. It's someone claiming to be that guy. He called me. I don't want to have my name associated with a story that's going to have recalls because we believe anyone who says he's a cop."

"But I want both of you on the story," James protested. He looked worried, as Rory sounded very serious.

She shook her head. "Kyle will do fine. You said yourself that he has promise."

"What about what you said yesterday, about him making waves at the precinct? He'll need someone to update him."

"You said you weren't worried about Kyle's waves, remember?"

James hesitated.

"Was there a specific reason you weren't worried?" she inquired with interest. When she didn't receive a response, she nodded. "You're realizing how bad it will sound if you said it out loud? That's what I thought." She started to get up.

"How is Kyle going to do the story without you if no one will talk to him?"

Rory turned back. "My advice? He can call One Police Plaza and talk to a spokesperson."

"But—"

"I'm going to go see if Life and Style needs me to write something for them," she said as she walked out the door.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Not long after she'd left her editor's office, Rory walked into the twenty-first precinct. She went to the third floor and made a bee line for the captain's office.

"Hey Mary," Tristan said, grabbing her wrist as she walked by—she hadn't slowed down. "Where are you heading in such a hurry?"

She nodded at the open door of the office. "To talk to your boss."

"Why?" he asked with furrowed brows.

"Look up Jack Young," she instructed him, tilting her head in the direction of the computer on his desk.

He used one hand to type in the name and they both waited a moment. His search results were more direct than hers had been. He clicked a couple times and found the information she'd read earlier that morning. "Who is he?"

"Kyle's police source."

Tristan looked at her with an inquisitive expression.

She nodded. "That's right," she said in a mockingly cheerful voice. "The Daily News is now printing anything anyone says—including ghosts."

"So what did you come down here for?"

"To tell Meyer that something is up." She tugged on her wrist, which Tristan still had a grip on. "Let me go."

He did as asked, but stood up to follow. Rory tapped on the door and went in when the captain acknowledged her. She took a seat in front of the large mahogany desk. Tristan stayed at the door, leaning a shoulder up against the frame. When his boss raised a brow at him in question, Tristan just shrugged.

"Good afternoon, Captain," Rory started politely and all business-like. "I wanted to let you know that there's someone calling the paper, and they're impersonating a police officer. He claims to be working on the Rivers homicide case with Detectives DuGrey and Stevenson. I just want to reassure you that the Daily News will not be printing anything this person says."

"All right," the balding middle-aged captain said.

"I will field any future calls made by this person and make sure you guys know what he said."

"I appreciate it," Meyer said.

"Now, I would like to research a case from six years ago. The source claimed to be an officer—a Jack Young—who was killed in the line of duty. Could I look through the police reports and witness statements from that case?"

"Sure," the captain said. "If you can get someone to find the stuff in archives and make copies."

"Thank you," Rory said as she stood up. She elbowed her way past Tristan and went back out to the bull pen floor. She started looking around at the detectives.

"What are you looking for?" Tristan asked at her side.

"Some nice looking person who'll get what I want from archives."

"Ah."

She looked up at him. "Unless you would be willing to get it for me."

"I suppose I could," he answered. "I'll get it later and bring it tonight."

"Thanks."

Mark walked over to them then. "Are you ready to go?" he asked Tristan.

"Yup."

"Where are we going?" Rory asked as she followed Tristan out to the hallway.

"We are going to search Courtney River's apartment again," he answered as they took the stairs.

"Oh," she said. "Uh, I have to tell you something." She stopped him on the landing between floors.

"What?"

"You're going to be mad."

"You didn't bring coffee for yourself this time," he observed.

She shook her head. "No. Okay, so, the source who says he's a cop? He called again today."

"And? What does he know today?"

"I don't know. But he does know my cell phone number."

Tristan looked at her sharply. "What?"

She nodded. "He called me on my cell phone today."

"How would someone know that number? You don't use it for work at all, do you?"

"No, not when talking with sources. Present company excluded, of course."

"You should get a different phone."

She hesitated and bit her lip.

Tristan sighed in frustration. "You don't want a different phone though. You want to keep talking to your new informant," he said knowingly as they continued down the stairs.

"Well, now I want to know what happened with that other case. I have the time."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm off the Rivers story. I told Jimmy that I don't want my name on recanted articles," Rory explained. She continued, "I promise to be careful."

Tristan sighed heavily again and shook his head. "It has to be someone who knows you."

"Yeah, but who?"

Neither of them had the answer. When they were at the second floor, Tristan went over to a vending machine. He looked through the glass at the options inside. He pulled a couple quarters out of his pocket and slipped them through the slot.

"What do I want?" he asked.

Rory viewed the choices and pressed a number and a letter. A Cracker Jacks box fell to the bottom and she reached down to retrieve it. She opened it and helped herself to some popcorn as they continued down the stairs. They walked out of the stairwell when they reached the ground level.

Mark walked out of the elevator and joined them as they went out the front doors. They stepped outside and squinted in the bright sunlight. Tristan stopped at the top of the steps and Rory held the box out to him.

"Did you want some?"

"Yes. Thank you," he said as he took the box. After pouring some of the candied popcorn into his hand, he scanned the street and asked, "So, who has your cell phone number—that you know of?"

"Just family and friends."

"What about people at the Daily News?"

"It's on file with Human Resources, and Jimmy has it. But other than that . . ." She thought a moment. "Marie. But she wouldn't give it out. Plus she's out of town."

"I have it," Mark said.

Rory looked at him, perplexed. "I don't mean this offensively or anything," she told him before turning back to Tristan, "but why does he have my number?"

"Because I gave it to him."

"Why?"

"Because we can pretend like your mandate about me not being allowed to get hurt will magically do the trick. Or I can just make sure you find out quickly if something does happen."

Rory pondered this for a minute. "Well . . . there's a phone call I can look forward to for the rest of my life," she muttered ruefully.

Tristan had been pouring popcorn into his hand, but he stopped and looked at Rory after her statement. "What?"

She looked at him. "I said, there's a phone call I can look forward to for the rest of my life," she said, more clearly this time. "Or I guess the rest of your life. Since you seem hell bent on being the first to go—if your recent antics are any indication."

Tristan stared at her for a few seconds.

"What?" she asked. "Oh. Yes, I finally said it, I want you around. Happy?" She glanced down at his hand and laughed a little. "There's your prize. It'll match your eyes."

He looked down. There was a blue plastic ring sitting on top of the popcorn.

Rory watched him pick up the ring and toss the popcorn on the ground. He grabbed her left hand and she took a step forward, startled by his abrupt move. He slipped the ring on her third finger.

"There you go," he said simply.

"What's this?" she asked with a small smile as she looked down at her hand.

"If you're going to spend all that time worrying about me, you should at least get my pension."

"What?" she asked with furrowed brows.

Mark, who saw what Tristan did and heard what he said, turned away and wished he wasn't there to be a witness.

Tristan nodded at Rory. "Yeah, you know. If something happens to me. You'll get my benefits," he explained assertively.

"But wouldn't we have to be ma—." She stopped mid word. The half-smile she'd been wearing dropped from her face and her heart sped up a little. "What are you doing?"

He shrugged. "Putting a ring on it. That's what you're supposed to do when you like it, right?"

"What are you saying?" Rory asked, her eyebrows were growing closer together.

"That I like it . . . it—being you."

"Are you seriously quoting Beyoncé?"

"A little."

"This is plastic," she protested, gesturing at the blue ring.

"Sure, but you're weird enough to think something like that would be cute."

"I'm weird?"

"Yeah, remember? It's good though—I like weird. I mean, I like that you're weird."

"We're standing in front of the precinct," she said incredulously, glancing at the building behind them.

"Mark asked in the middle of the sidewalk," Tristan said, pointing to his partner. "Remember? We were there."

Mark shook his head in dismay and muttered, "Please don't bring me into this."

"Mark had an actual ring and obviously thought about it for more than two seconds," Rory said indignantly. "And you haven't asked anything. I don't know what you're doing. But this isn't how you're supposed to do it."

Rory yanked the ring off her finger and grabbed Tristan's hand. She slapped the ring onto his palm and closed his fingers over it. She roughly thrust his fist into his chest and turned on her heel. She left him watching her leave as she headed for the subway terminal.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

"Have I told you that you're an idiot lately?" Mark asked as he and Tristan watched Rory walk away.

"It's been a little over twenty-four hours."

"You still are." Mark turned to his partner and shook his head in wonder. "Outstanding."

"What just happened?" Tristan asked in a daze.

"You proposed," Mark said as he started down the stairs.

"No I didn't," Tristan said. He pocketed the blue ring as he followed.

"Yes you did. But in your defense, it was so bad that you probably couldn't tell what you were doing. She couldn't tell—which is why she wanted clarification."

Tristan took a moment to think it all over. The phrase 'rest of our lives' and the image of him shoving a plastic ring on Rory's finger crossed his mind. It did seem to indicate a certain something. "Oh my God. Did I just propose?"

Mark nodded. "In a roundabout way. I'm starting to wonder, do you listen when you talk, or is it just white noise?" he asked, somewhat rhetorically. "I told you not to do anything stupid."

"You should have been more specific!"

"I thought I was pretty clear," Mark said as they approached the black Camaro.

"Here," Tristan said, handing over his keys. "You better drive. I don't think I can right now."

Mark nodded in agreement and went to the driver's side. He unlocked the doors and they both got in.

"You said I was overthinking the situation," Tristan continued. "So I stopped thinking."

"This is what happens when your subconscious takes over?" Mark asked incredulously. "Apparently you've only been repressing yourself."

"Why didn't you stop me?"

"It was like a train wreck. You're powerless to stop it, but you can't look away—even though you really, really want to."

Tristan let his head fall back onto the headrest. "Good thing I didn't ask for real. She'd have said no. I told you she doesn't want to get married."

Mark had been adjusting the seat, but stopped dead. "That's what you gathered from what just happened?"

Tristan looked over at him. "What else was I supposed to take from it?"

"Geez, you're a bigger idiot than I thought. She seemed to be upset by the way you asked."

"But I didn't ask."

"She seemed kind of mad about that too."

"Oh man," Tristan said dismally. He rubbed his face in his hands. "I don't know how I'm supposed to make up for this one. I'm going to have to buy a whole coffee chain. And I'll need my trust fund to do that. I'll have to turn in my badge and go practice law. That's it then, my dad wins. I thought there was a chance that it might happen one day, but I was not expecting this to be the reason," he rambled.

"Hey, how much are you worth anyway?"

"What?"

"How much is your net worth? I know you aren't in line to run an empire or anything, but you're worth something, aren't you?"

Tristan looked at his partner like he had three heads.

"Sorry, off topic," Mark said, shaking his head as he pulled out of the parking lot. "So. Was calling her weird completely necessary?"

"I meant it as a compliment," Tristan said miserably as he let his head fall back again. He turned so he could stare out the passenger side window.

"Nice touch."

"Thank you."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A few hours later, the detectives were back at the precinct. It was the end of the day, and Mark once again stood to go home before his partner. And he—once again—paused before leaving.

"So what are you going to do?" he asked Tristan.

The blonde was sitting with his cheek resting on his fist and was staring at nothing in particular. He shrugged before responding. "Probably go down to the gym for a while. Then go home and get in the shower, where I can crawl into the fetal position," Tristan answered tonelessly. He looked up then. "Good thing I have a safety net to go to. Maybe I'm just the kind of guy who needs a backup place. For when I screw up."

"I don't think she's mad for the reason you think."

But Tristan shook his head, not convinced.

"Just go talk to her," Mark suggested.

Tristan shook his head again. "Not tonight. I wouldn't know what to say."