Act 2
International Arrivals, LaGuardia Airport, New York City
The moment Uhura stepped in front of them, Leonard could feel Kirk taking notice.
"Who's that?"
Leonard smirked. "That's Uhura. Uhura was my probie."
"Uhura?"
Leonard nodded. "She was a probationary agent, now awaiting assignment. She does everything I don't, she's very good at her job, and she can do way better than you."
Kirk shot him an annoyed look. "I know what a probie is. I'm asking what's Uhura's name?"
"Just Uhura," his probie said when they were within earshot.
Kirk smiled expectantly at her. "Uhura? Is that some F.B.I. custom to go with just a last name?"
Uhura rolled her eyes. "You must be James Kirk."
"You can call me Jim," Kirk offered helpfully. "And I should call you…"
"Uhura," Uhura replied primly. Her dark eyes flicked up to his head. "Nice hat."
"Don't get him started," Leonard warned. "What've we got?"
"His name's Tony Field. Customs flagged him coming in from Spain in response to our Snow White BOLO."
"Customs playing nice?" Leonard drawled.
Uhura smirked. "Ah, the usual chest pounding. He's in their custody, not ours."
Leonard shrugged. "Less paperwork for me. What's he carrying?"
Uhura's smile broadened. "Oh, you're gonna love this."
The suitcase packed full of old, thin books wasn't what he was expecting.
"This is what triggered our alert?" Leonard said, his eyebrow arched high.
"Blancanieves y Los Siete Enanos?" Kirk read, his accent perfect. "Snow White and her Seven Little Men?"
"I'm impressed," Uhura commented.
"Really?" Kirk beamed.
"No." Uhura turned to Leonard. "He says he's a rare book dealer."
Of course he is. Leonard harrumphed. "Anything wrong with his paperwork?"
"Nope. He brought in the same books in the same quantity on three previous trips. He declared them each time."
Leonard gestured towards the suitcase. "All right. Are we wasting our time?"
Kirk scrutinized the books with an intensity that unnerved Leonard; everything else seemed to have disappeared for the con artist. Kirk's palms hovered over the suitcase's contents with a reverence before he pulled one book out. The pages rustled as Kirk thumbed through them, not reading but his blue eyes darkened as he examined them. To Leonard's amusement, Kirk even pressed his nose to the book to give it a whiff.
"They're not limited runs or special editions," Kirk murmured as he ran careful gloved hands over the binding. He chewed his lower lip. "Can't be worth much."
"So why go through all the trouble of flying them in?" Leonard wondered out loud.
"He sure was nervous for having all the right paperwork," Uhura remembered.
Leonard grunted. "I want to talk to him."
Uhura nodded. "I'll set it up." She checked her watch. "Hey boss, I'm grabbing some coffee before we do that. You want some?"
God, yes. Leonard nodded his head empathetically. "Yeah, anything but decaf."
"Uh, could you make that three?" Kirk spoke up.
"Not really," Uhura drawled as she gracefully turned on her heels. "The coffee shop's outside."
Leonard shook his head as he watched Kirk grinning after her. "I like her; she makes things exciting."
"You are way out of your league."
Kirk looked miffed at that. He shrugged seconds later. "Oh, harmless flirting." He winked at Leonard. "It's like a dance."
Leonard snorted. "No, there is no dance. You're not even on her dance card. No dancing for you." Leonard gave Kirk a little pat on the arm. "She already has a dance partner."
Kirk sighed. He pulled up his pants leg. "It's the jewelry, isn't it?" he said mournfully.
"Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, Dino."
The narrow-faced bald man sitting by the table looked about ready to yell at someone but his hands shook slightly as he cleaned his glasses. His mouth pursed, his eyes slits on his face, Field acted all in part like an indignant businessman. He glared as Leonard approached him.
"Leonard McCoy, F.B.I." Leonard sat down across from Field.
"F.B.I.?" Field sniffed at the badge flashed to him. "Oh, you're really kicking it up a notch."
The urge to grab the weasel by the head and use it as a hammer was surprisingly overwhelming. "So," Leonard said in a deliberate voice, "you're a book dealer."
Field folded his arms in front of him. "Yes, well, as I told everyone here, repeatedly, my business is the import and sale of rare books."
Leonard shrugged. "How rare can they be? You've got six hundred of them."
"Like me to go the crime lab, help you dust for fingerprints?" Field jeered.
Leonard smiled tightly. "I get it. 'Cause I'm telling you how to do your job."
Field grunted.
"So...Snow White. In Spanish."
Field sneered. "Snow White was not created by Disney, detective. There are a few stories the predate Steamboat Willie."
"I'm a federal agent, not a historian," Leonard corrected him with a tight smile, "By the way, you mean the folklore about the virginally pure queen? Like Alexander Pushkin's 'Tale of the White Princess and the Seven Knights.' Is that what you mean?" Leonard smirked at the wide-eyed gape Field gave him. Leonard leaned in and stared hard at Field.
"What are the books for?" Leonard asked low.
Field, for the first time, couldn't meet his eye.
"Hey!" Leonard slapped his hand to the table and enjoyed some satisfaction when Field jumped.
The dealer nervously bit his lower lip. He opened his mouth when the door opened behind them.
"I'd appreciate if you didn't talk to my client." The newcomer filled the doorway with his tall frame. There was nothing friendly about the smile the lawyer gave him. "You know. Constitution and all."
Leonard pulled an equally welcoming smile to the lawyer one that dripped Southern Comfort. "Were y'all chasing the ambulance or did your sugar daddy give you a ride?" Leonard rose to his feet and circled the designer suit, he eyed it the way he'd seen Jim Kirk do to his own wash and wear Macy's version. "Huh," he murmured, "I'm supposin' not. Those wrinkles are evidence you must've thumbed it."
Unfazed, the lawyer merely smirked back at him. "Thank you, agent," he said in a syrupy voice before he closed the door to Leonard's face.
Kirk gave Leonard a sympathetic look from his seat as he took a sip of coffee.
"Scary federal agent face didn't work on the bookseller, huh?"
Leonard gnashed his teeth. "I almost had him." He glowered at the cup Kirk held. "Is that mine?"
Kirk wordlessly handed it over.
Leonard took a long guzzle rather than answering. He glanced over to Uhura. "Where's that Customs Inspector?"
Uhura bade the Inspector to come over. "Jim was right, the books aren't worth much. You can pick them up for a few dollars on Ebay."
Leonard scowled at the officer as he approached. "Hey," he barked as the inspector came up to them, "why didn't you tell me that guy lawyered up? The second he makes that call, I can't talk to him."
The Customs Inspector gave him a baffled frown. "He didn't call anybody."
"Then how did his lawyer know that he—" Shit. Leonard spun around, his cup crashing to the floor when he bolted. He could sense the officer, Uhura and Kirk behind him and he was about to warn Kirk back but he was already at the door. He flattened against one side, his arm out to pin Kirk back. Uhura immediately positioned herself on the other side with the inspector.
"One," Leonard mouthed as he balanced his gun in his grip. Uhura nodded curtly as she raised her weapon.
Two. Kirk strained against his arm—curiosity, stupidity, who knew—driven to edge closer despite Leonard nudging him back to safety.
Three.
Pivoting around, Leonard kicked the center of the airport security door, sending it swinging open. His gun was up, pointed at chest level as Uhura and the Customs Inspector rushed in.
"Boss!" Uhura called out sharply.
Kirk exhaled sharply behind them.
"Damn it!" Leonard swore as soon as he spotted Field. He holstered his gun and crouched by the body. He neatly avoided the hypodermic needle jutting out of the side of Field's neck and checked for a pulse.
"I need paramedics in here now!" the Inspector bellowed into his radio.
Kirk dropped to his knees beside him. "I know CPR. I can help."
Leonard closed his eyes briefly. "Don't bother. He's dead, Jim." He got to his feet and growled.
"Nobody frisked the lawyer?"
There were times Jim hated the acuity of his memory.
Field's vacant eyes stayed with him as he circled the suitcase. He chewed on his lower lip and tried not to think about the fact that the suitcase was probably the last thing Field had touched.
It's not like he'd never seen a dead body before. The opposite, in fact. He hadn't understood it when he was thirteen and his mom had sent him and Sam to live with relatives. He still didn't understand it now.
"Got a dead book dealer, a killer lawyer and a bunch of worthless novels. All right, come on, as a reformed professional counterfeiter, what is the Dutchman's interest in these?"
Jim wondered if the killer was the last thing Field saw. Was that what every murder victim saw with their dying breath? Was Kodos' face the last thing his aunt and uncle saw when they were forced to kneel on bloody straw in front of the cameras and ATF—
"Hey."
Blinking, the ghost of Texan trees morphed into stark white walls and overly lit spaces. Jim found himself inches from McCoy's face. The agent's brow furrowed, his eyes studying Jim. His mouth crinkled, understanding lightening his gaze. It was a bit unnerving.
"Okay?" McCoy asked in a low, gruff tone.
Jim nodded quickly. He averted his eyes to the books. He was grateful his hands were steady as he held one. He scanned the front page and the grain.
"Published in 1944 in Madrid." Jim flipped through the book. The paper held a sweet, wet pulpy smell that almost made him smile. The texture was rough, rippled of spun fibers, braided together into a pattern unique to its own. Jim loved the sensation of ink raising paper, drawing beauty in what was otherwise ordinary, discounted, disregarded. Each paper had its own scent, its own special—wait.
"This is what he's after," Jim announced.
Jim grabbed a ruler and slid it carefully under the blank cover sheet of the book.
"The top sheet?" Uhura said doubtfully.
Jim nodded. His heart pounded as his mind raced. First piece of the puzzle. He just needed a little more to make a picture. "More than that." He held up the sheet. "This is a piece of 1944 Spanish press parchment."
McCoy hemmed thoughtfully. "That's what he wanted. Good. This is good."
"He's going to counterfeit something that was originally printed on paper like that," Uhura guessed.
Jim slid a look at McCoy grinning. "That's what I would do."
McCoy rubbed a knuckle under his chin, too distracted to do anything more than scowl half-heartedly at Jim. "Field made three prior shipments with these."
"Two blank pages a book is six hundred sheets," Jim calculated.
McCoy grunted. "Too many for paintings."
"Not enough for currency," Uhura added.
McCoy's eyes zeroed in on Field's jacket, the one he'd left folded on the table. "I bet our dead book dealer knew." he muttered as he rifled through the wallet. Jim stared at the coat, his stomach churning, until McCoy, for whatever reason, stepped in front of him. The agent gave a soft "Ah ha" and pulled out a card. "This is where he went, the day before he left for Spain."
"The National Archives," Jim read over McCoy's shoulder. He brightened. "I know this place. They have a great collection of Gregorian chant books right by the window…" Jim smiled cheekily at the twin glowers shone his way. "Or so I heard."
"So he's been to the Archives," Uhura concluded, "But was that enough to kill him for it?"
"Too bad we can't ask Field," Jim muttered, sobering. He glanced over at the coat again.
"But we can ask his lawyer," McCoy said thoughtfully. He quirked an eyebrow at Uhura. "How do you suppose the guy got here?"
Fashion District, New York City
"I think I like the car better."
Kirk grumbled as he sat on the stool and yawned behind Sulu and Chekov. Kirk gave the innards of their utility van a look of disgust. "Why does it smell like cabbage? Does anyone ever clean in here?"
"Not since the Carter administration," Sulu muttered out of the corner of his mouth as he flicked a Twinkie wrapper off the shelf in front of him.
"Are you volunteering?" Leonard added as he squinted at the images Chekov was fast forwarding on his screen. He grimaced. Kid wasn't even blinking. "I think there's a mop and bucket in here somewhere."
"I think you need a flame thrower, not a mop," Kirk grumbled.
"That's him," Chekov declared as he leaned back from his hunched position over his computer. He stretched his arms above his head. "His car. Definitely." He waved towards all the airport footage he's been searching for over an hour. "That is him getting out and getting in the vehicle."
"Yeah," Kirk murmured. Leonard noted the frown as Kirk stared intently at the screen. "Definitely the man who killed Field."
"License plate leads back to here," Sulu reported as he hung up his phone. "Uhura says the plates are registered to an Aye…Ayel Collins. He has an office here: an auditing firm."
Leonard squinted at the surveillance video of the building across from them. It was a plain, box shaped old factory, converted to luxury offices back in the real estate boon. He grimaced at the loud colored vertical banners draped from top to bottom on every corner announcing there were spaces still available. It was like that with most of the renovated high ceiling buildings here: sweat shops reincarnated into prime real estate at thousands of dollars a square foot.
"Attorney and an auditor," Leonard remarked. "A Renaissance man."
"I doubt he gets a lot of business here crunching numbers," Kirk murmured as he squinted at the screen. He tilted his head up at Leonard. "What now?"
"Now," Leonard decided as he levered out of his chair and motioned Sulu to follow. Together, they checked their weapons and clips. "Sulu and I are going to pay our attorney a visit." He caught Kirk making a face when he tucked his Sig into his shoulder holster. He his jacket closed. "Chekov, you monitor the situation. Kirk…" Leonard paused at the expectant look. "Stay in the van."
"Seriously?" Kirk's outraged yelp was cut off when Leonard slammed the doors as soon as he hopped out.
Of course he ran.
As soon as Leonard stepped off the third floor and Collins sighted them; the bastard ran.
Why? Why did they always run?
The exit door almost closed on Sulu's fingers when he took off after Collins. Leonard shouldered past the few idiots left gaping after them as he ducked into the stairway after his junior agent.
"He's going for the roof!" Sulu shouted as he heard Collins picking up speed, never pausing at each level. For the love of mint juleps, did the guy run marathons?
"Chekov, get NYPD!" Leonard panted into his radio, cursing Sulu for thinking he was a goddamn greyhound in some rabbit race, taking steps two at a time and narrowly falling flat on his face a few times. "Send a couple of uniforms to cordon off the block!"
"They're on their way."
Collins didn't seem impressed with the "Stop! Federal agent!" on his heels. He was already halfway across the rooftop by the time they reached the top. Tall, athletic and barely winded, Collins leapt easily over a layering of pipes before twisting around to fire.
"Watch it!" Leonard grabbed Sulu by the scuff of the neck as soon as he spotted the gun. "Down!" was the only warning he gave and yanked hard. They dove behind the boxy HVAC unit just as Collins fired wildly in their direction.
Sulu rolled to crouch behind the short walls that bordered the elevator shaft across from Leonard. He nodded, too winded to respond when Leonard pointed two fingers towards Collins.
Counting in his head, Leonard rose up, high enough to see over the unit. He spotted Collins hiding behind the network of pipes and the skylight.
The sharp acrid stench of burnt gunpowder filled his nostrils as he fired two shots to Collins's left, forcing him to zip to the right, only to jerk back when Sulu fired two shots to skip inches from his foot.
"Stop or we'll shoot, Collins!" Leonard shouted. He swore and dropped to his haunches when Collins's reply consisted of three short gun bursts. He covered his head with both his hands as the vent splintered above him.
"I said or we'll shoot, damn it!"
Sulu jumped up, fired two more rounds to draw his fire but ended up throwing himself to the ground next to his spent casings.
Leonard muttered as he checked his clip. He slid it back in, readjusted his grip and sucked in his breath. Steeling himself, he aimed his gun above his head but before he could fire, a rally of bullets shot up across his cover. One punched through by his ear. Leonard rolled to slam his back against a chimney vent.
iOh, that's much better/i, Leonard thought bitterly as he tried to look around it to pinpoint Collins's position but he was too well-placed with the water pipes around him: thick insulated metal barriers that wrapped around him like a Stonehenge.
"We're too exposed!" Sulu called out, jerking back, barely missing getting shot in the neck.
Chekov babbled in his earpiece. The agent probably wasn't really babbling but Leonard's ears were too busy being deafened by the shrill metal tearing sounds of bullets skidding and poking holes in the only shelter he had.
Click.
"He's out," Sulu whispered. Before Leonard could respond, call him an idiot, Sulu was off again, after Collins.
"Sulu! Sulu, wait for—idiot!" Leonard grated out, getting to his feet and giving chase. He hadn't run this much since goddamn track in high school. He vaulted easily over a set of pipes running parallel to the roof. He jumped over the next pair, his legs burning. Damn, he was getting too old for this shit. But Leonard gnashed his teeth, determined to follow Sulu because when he catches his junior agent, he was going to kill him.
But then, they jumped off the roof.
"Jesus!" Leonard skidded. His arms wind milled back, halting that natural momentum to lean forward and eight stories below. He glowered at Collins, at Sulu, who didn't hesitate leaping off the roof. Leonard watched, choked until he saw Sulu landing on the shorter building in a neat tuck and roll that got him back on his feet again. The agent glanced over his shoulder, agape, his face all "Holy shit" as if he only now realized what he had done.
"Chekov," Leonard snapped into his radio. His radio had been suspiciously quiet. "Corner him on 312. Sulu's on 314's roof. I'm going down to block off 314's exit."
"We're on our way," Chekov reported breathlessly.
"Wait a minute. What do you mean 'we'?"
Bones was going to put him back in jail.
Jim had just enough time to think it even as he grabbed Chekov by the elbow.
"We can head him off on 312," Jim urged. He doubted Collins would stay on the same building for long. He wouldn't.
Chekov was about to protest when the radio crackled with clear high piercing spikes of sound.
"Shots fired! Shots fired!" Sulu was shouting into his radio.
Chekov swore under his breath, pulled out his gun from his waistband. "We need to request backup but they'll be too long. You stay in the—Kirk, wait!"
Later on, Jim would claim he hadn't heard Chekov as he jumped out of the van and raced for 312. He would swear that no, he didn't remember he didn't have a gun and no, he wasn't trying to take Collins down by himself.
But during the ride back into the city, all Jim could think about was how empty Field's eyes looked, how the dealer must had figured delivering stacks of old paper was better than bank robbery or some other score that needed blood spilled before purse strings were cut open. No, Field figured he could deliver Snow White like the hunter in the forest without a drop of blood. Field didn't expect to be killed. Murdered. No one ever did.
Bones was all about the rules and keeping things safe. He didn't understand stuff like this. How you could get caught by surprise when some bastard didn't play by the rules. And then you were dead. Just like Field.
Jim dashed up the stairs, foregoing the elevator. He took the steps two at a time easily and he reached the roof barely winded.
No one was firing. Collins would have run out of bullets by now. He scanned the area. Calculating where he would head if he were a scum ball murdering roof climber. Okay, find cover and when Collins predictably came over to 312's roof, Jim could tackle him easily.
"Collins, freeze!"
It was a stupid command. Jim eyed the five foot gap between 312 and 314. Collins ran with the clear intention of not staying put. Telling the man to freeze after he was already running, jumping off a roof was sort of like—
Pachinko.
Jim blinked and time sped up just in time to see a shadow peel away from the water tower to his left. There was a glint in the fading sun, a shape pointed at Sulu as he landed on 314, gaining on Collins—
"Gun!" Jim hollered. Sulu jerked and dove for cover.
The shadowy mass whipped around towards Jim instead.
Oh shit.
Jim flung himself down, getting down just as a bullet missed his head. He scanned frantically but aside from where the second gunman was hiding; the only other safety was 314's HVAC-studded surface.
Sulu fired across and the gunman ducked. Jim edged out of his hiding place. He yelped when wood splintered by his face. Slivers of pain flashed across his cheek and throat.
Across the building, Sulu responded but the distance threw off his accuracy. The gunman jerked back to avoid Sulu's volley. Collins was nowhere in sight. Unfortunately, the gunman was still there and bent on disintegrating Jim's cover. Not good. Not good. Jim drew in his breath and ran for the roof edge. His feet pushed off, he threw his torso forward.
He leapt.
His arms reached, cutting the air like oars, propelling him towards the ledge. His feet automatically flexed, prepared for the landing…
He missed.
Jim slammed into the ledge, his ribs impacting stone and emptying the air out of his lungs in a single violent whoosh. Jim gasped and he found himself sliding backwards to the drop he could feel yawning under him. His fingers scrambled for purchase on the brick, but it wasn't enough and he lost another inch—
"Gotcha." Sulu's hand whipped out and latched onto one of his wrists, halting his slide. The young agent grinned down at him. "Just—"
Collins tackled him from behind.
"Sulu!"
Sulu shouted—or maybe it was Jim—and the agent sailed over Jim's head. Suddenly, it was iJim/i grabbing onto Sulu's hand.
"Hold on," Jim gritted out. He was close enough to hear Chekov shouting coming from the radio strapped to Sulu's belt. He pulled but the weight pulled back harder. Jim's neck strained as his shoulders bore the agony of both their bodies tugged lower by gravity.
Silent, Sulu struggled scrabbling for footholds. He only ended up skidding on the slick latex banners pinned to the faces of the building and straining Jim's arm out of its socket.
Collins shadow fell across him. A bolt of pain ignited when Collins smashed the handle of his gun over Jim's fingers. Jim grunted and dug his fingers into gritty block. Collins swung again. He ground out a cry. Sulu shouted, Chekov was screaming something in the radio.
They fell.
In one desperate reach, Jim snagged the banner. His fingers skidded, burning as they slipped over the slick surface until he grabbed enough material to stop their fall with a jerk.
"Shit," Sulu gasped, his hands now doubled up tight around Jim's. He wrapped his arms around Jim's middle, lacing his fingers together. "Oh shit, that's a long way down."
Jim agreed, panting and was about to suggest they swing over to the fire escape teasing the heels of their feet when the banner began to tear.
When Leonard saw Kirk fall, his heart slammed into his ribs. Racing forward, he cursed at himself. Why had he taken the pavement? Why hadn't he gone up to the other roof himself? And what the hell had he been thinking to bring the kid along?
Chekov came out of nowhere. "I know what to do! Follow me!" or something of that nature as he sped past Leonard and disappeared around the corner of the building Sulu and Kirk dangled from.
"Under them!" Chekov was saying when Leonard caught up. He tugged one of the wheeled dumpsters parked by a futon storefront that had the yellow 'Closed by US Marshals' plastered all over its cracked windows. Leonard jumped in to tug at the container when he realized it was filled of yellowed Styrofoam packing peanuts.
Inside, he knew there was no way this could be enough. It was like diving into a glass of water. But he saw the banner tearing; Sulu and Kirk jerking closer and closer toward the ground. They were no longer at the top but still high enough to kill them. A glass of water was better than nothing.
"What you 'oing with my 'umpster?" Leonard heard as a shopkeeper stumbled out of the store. A dog was barking from within.
"Federal agent!" Leonard snapped as he pulled.
"You are supposed to keep your dog leashed," Chekov added breathlessly as he pushed.
Whatever the owner had to say was lost in the loud rattling of rusty wheels over pavement.
"Not good," Chekov breathed, "That does not look good."
Leonard didn't want to look up but he'd constantly been accused of being a glutton for punishment. So he looked up. And swore.
The banner was completely halved now and ripping fast and only kept together by its thick border. Twenty, fifteen, ten feet.
"Hold on!" Chekov hollered as he grunted, his face red from the strain as they moved the dumpster.
"Hurry!" Sulu's far away voice was loud enough to convey the exasperation.
Leonard's thighs burned with the effort. He puffed, swore he would never step into that overpriced green logo java crack den again and tugged the bin until Chekov hollered it was good.
"Jump!" Chekov shouted up through cupped hands.
"What?" Leonard couldn't tell if it was Sulu or Kirk.
"The bin is filled with—it's fine!"
Leonard grimaced when he heard an expletive. Definitely Sulu. It didn't look like it would hold until the firemen got there.
The banner broke completely.
With wordless shouts the two fell, partially cloaked by the shorn off advert and with a cloud of packing peanuts, and a large iclang/i, they landed dead center of the dumpster.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
Somewhere, the store owner was still cursing them out for stealing his bin.
"See?" Chekov said breathlessly as he peered into the bin. "You could have jumped."
Inside, Sulu slapped a piece of the banner at his head. Chekov staggered back.
Leonard blew out slowly. He hung over the bin, his head spinning and debated how much of an ass would he be if he threw up right now. Christ. He glared at Sulu and Kirk covered in clingy Styrofoam. One of them had the good sense to look sheepish, the other was Kirk.
Sulu ran a hand through his hair, although it appeared more like he was checking if his head was still attached. He glanced over at Kirk trying to sit up.
Kirk clamored to his knees and clutched the edge of the bin. He panted, grimacing as he gingerly felt the cuts on his face. He smiled brightly up at Leonard.
"You look like a goddamn poodle," Leonard told him.
Kirk flicked a peanut at him.
"That should do it," the paramedic told Jim as he finished splinting the three reddened fingers. "You sure you don't want us to take you in for X-rays?"
Jim studied the bandages. This was going to be impractical. He couldn't hold even a pencil like this. Luckily, he was ambidextrous. "They're not broken," he said as he tried moving his middle finger.
"Well, we can take you to St. Vincent's to be sure—"
"I'm sure," Jim interrupted in a firm voice. It wasn't easy to forget the sensation of bones grinding against each other. "They're not broken."
The paramedic looked doubtful but at Jim's resolve, wandered off to tend to Sulu seated by the dumpster. The agent was still gaping up at the building with a mix of awe and nausea.
"What are you a doctor now instead of a thief?"
Jim lifted his heavy head to look at McCoy out of the corner of his eyes. "What?"
"Self-diagnosing?" McCoy leaned against one of the ambulance's doors, his hands in his pockets. Keen eyes swept across Jim. "Or is it field experience?"
Averting his gaze, Jim watched the black and white patrol cars clustered around the street corner, officers dragging blue wooden barriers to close off the avenue.
"Did you catch him?" Jim asked wearily.
"We will." The agent sounded just as tired. McCoy's shadow eclipsed his. "Seriously, you doing all right there?"
Jim toed the asphalt. He picked a peanut off his trousers.
"Any dizziness? Nausea? Trouble breathing?"
Jim tilted his head up to McCoy. "Is this where you whip out the stethoscope you keep in your pocket?"
"Sorry," Bones dryly replied, "I left it in my other suit."
Jim leaned his head on the ambulance door and exhaled. His head pounded still from the fall and his heart raced as if he was still running, but there was also a cold lump in his gut when he realized it was pretty much for nothing. Field's killer got away.
"This was different. That was a crazy thing you did back there." McCoy sounded oddly not angry, more curious. "You know you probably saved Sulu's life."
Jim shrugged.
"He was trying to save mine."
"So this was like a returning the favor kind of thing?"
Jim grunted. "Sure."
"Hey."
Jim reluctantly looked up. McCoy frowned mildly down at him. "Running in to help, not a great idea, but better than a lot of crazy ones you've had."
Sighing, Jim stared out at the chaos around them.
"I may play outside your rules, but I never hurt anyone," Jim finally said. He studied his bandaged hand and flexed it cautiously. He scowled at his bindings. How was he supposed to hold a lockpick like this?
"What?"
"The…" Jim smirked faintly, "the cons I've allegedly run. Companies, people who've supposedly lost their money…they could afford it. I would bet it's wounded pride more than any other reason they even report it to you guys. We—I never set out to hurt anyone."
"That you know of," McCoy muttered.
Jim darted a questioning look at him. Reluctantly, McCoy shook his head. He nodded towards Jim's hand.
"You sure you don't want me to look at that?"
Jim was oddly touched at the wrinkle forming between McCoy's eyes. "No. I would know—"
"Yeah, yeah. I heard you would know if they were broken. Got it." Bones fidgeted, looking like he wanted to ask more, but instead he checked his watch. "Feel up to one more stop then?"
Jim tilted his head up at McCoy.
"National Archives?"
Jim grinned, his hand all but forgotten. "Can we check out the Greg—"
McCoy grunted in mock disgust and walked away.
"Aw, I'll buy you a souvenir there, Bones!" Jim snickered when McCoy spun around and glowered at him before stalking off. Jim chuckled to himself.
"You okay?"
Jim smiled up at Sulu. He showed his hand. "Still attached." Jim nodded to the cuts on the other's jaw. "You?"
Sulu's shoulders rose and fell. He eased himself down onto the step next to Jim. "Head's still attached. Ringing like a gong, but definitely still there."
The two sat quietly until Sulu took a deep breath.
"Listen, so ah…"
Surprised, Jim scratched his jaw with a finger. "No problem."
Sulu huffed. "Good."
"How did you know?"
Jim lifted his eyes and found Chekov studying him intently. "What?"
The young agent pointed at the building they were rescued from. "The banner. How did you know it would hold you and Sulu?"
Jim shrugged. "Banner's made of PVC vinyl, right? Look up the distribution strength some time."
"Oh." Chekov nodded, his eyes wide. "You have done this before? For one of heists? Did it work?"
Out of the corner of his eye, Jim caught Sulu covering his face with a hand. Jim shrugged and grinned.
Sulu swore into his hands.
Chekov walked away impressed. Jim rolled his eyes and rested his elbows on his knees as he sat on the ambulance's step up. He watched the officers milling about and thought how weird it was to just be quietly sitting there. No running, no hiding, no mile a minute talking to get them out of some scrape. Sam would find the irony hilarious.
Bones kept checking over, his face thoughtful, all squinty eyed like Jim was some Picasso he couldn't tell was a forgery or not. He could practically see the worry line. Fake or real? Fake or real? He scowled when Jim waved jauntily at him and he stomped off to probably do F.B.I. things.
Weary, Jim massaged the side of his head. He hated puzzles he couldn't decipher and Field's death and a stack of old parchment paper was almost as confusing as McCoy's mercurial attitude towards him. There were times McCoy acted like he wanted to throw Jim back in jail. There were times he looked like he regretted doing it in the first place. And then he asked to see if his fingers were broken. What the hell?
"You just grabbed the first thing you could reach, didn't you?" Sulu said all of the sudden.
Jim blew out sharply. He canted his head and grinned at Sulu.
Sulu snorted in disbelief and lightly slapped Jim's shoulder with the back of his hand, smirking.