Ain't Life Grand

by Musical Redhead

"The harder you fight to hold on to specific assumptions, the more likely there's gold in letting go of them." -John Seely Brown - The detective and the crime reporter are going to have to decide what to let go of and what to hold on to. Mystery #3

6. Be the Ball

Title: Ain't Life Grand

Chapter 6: Be the Ball

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: Thanks for the reviews! Yes, this is the penultimate chapter.

To decide is to walk facing forward with nary a crick in your neck from looking back at the crossroads. –Betsy Cañas Garmon

Be the Ball

On Tuesday morning, Tristan and Mark were riding an elevator to the thirty-second floor of a high rise building on Wall Street. When the elevator stopped at their destination, the detectives walked off and showed their badges to a receptionist. They then proceeded down the hall to one of the offices.

John Bell was sitting behind a large desk, with his back to an impressive view of the city. He glanced up briefly before looking back down at the work in front of him. "Detectives," he greeted in disinterest.

"We have your phone records," Mark informed him. "And we'd like to know what you talked to Courtney about when you were calling her around the time that she was killed."
John did not respond.

Mark continued, "The GPS in your phone gave us a nice map of where you were Thursday. You couldn't remember where you went to lunch that day. Do you remember now?"

As Mark finished his sentence, Tristan put the map on the desk so their suspect could see.

"It looks like you were on Sixth Avenue right when the fire took place," Tristan said. "So what happened? Erika was getting back from vacation the next day. Did you decide it was a convenient time to get rid of evidence indicating that you were messing around?"

John sat his pen down and crossed his arms. "I didn't set that fire," he said.

"Then what were you doing there?"

"I was there to meet Courtney."

"Ah, for some afternoon delight," Stevenson said, it wasn't a question.

John shrugged. "Sure."

"You were meeting at Erika's apartment, weren't you?"

The man hesitated a second. "Yes."

Tristan sat down in a chair and made himself comfortable. "You had one of the keys to Erika's apartment, didn't you?"

"Yes. But I gave it back to her a few weeks ago, since she moved out."

"Yeah, that's what she told us," Mark said. "Except here's the problem with that. She moved in with you and didn't need the key to her old apartment when she was on vacation. Which means you were the one with the keys."

"Possession is nine tenths of the law," Tristan added.

"I'm not the one who let Courtney in Thursday. I used to a few months ago, but she didn't need me for that after a while."

"Why not?"

"She had a key," John said.

"The one Paul lost?" Mark asked.

"Mm-hmm, she stole it from him when they were still dating."

"Okay," Tristan said. "But there's still a problem with that. There wasn't a key found in the apartment after the fire. Which means you were still the only one who could get in."

John didn't say anything for a minute. He shook his head. "I was in the area because we were supposed to meet up around noon," he said. "But I never even went into the building. I got to Sixth Avenue and saw all the police and firefighters. So I called Courtney to tell her I was going back to work."

"The building was on fire," Mark said. "You weren't concerned when she didn't answer?"

John shrugged. "There were people everywhere. I thought she might be out on the street and couldn't hear her phone."

"You didn't want to find out if she was okay?" Mark asked.

"There were plenty of rescue personnel there."

"What a gentleman," Tristan said dryly.

"I didn't kill her," John said.

"It's getting harder and harder to believe that," Tristan said.

"Fine. Do you have an arrest warrant? I want to call my lawyer if you do."

"Not yet," Tristan said. "But don't leave town. I just have to call a judge."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Meanwhile, Rory got out of a cab in Lower Manhattan. She looked at the busy street and at all the people walking by. She looked up at the tall buildings around her. From this street, she could see the Empire State Building.

She turned to enter an apartment building and took the elevator to the twenty-fifth floor. She was there to interview Diane Young—now Aldred—in her home. Rory walked down the hall until she found the address she was given. She knocked and a minute later, a tall woman answered with a friendly smile. Rory introduced herself and Diane moved so she could enter the apartment.

"Hi, come on in," Diane said. "We can sit in the dining room, I just made some coffee."

"Okay, great," Rory said as she took a seat at the table and took out her notepad and pen. "You have a nice home," she commented as she looked around the tidy apartment.

"Thanks," Diane said as she came to the table with two cups of coffee. She handed one to Rory and sat down across from her. "So you're looking into the robbery where Jack was killed?"

"Yes," Rory answered. "It came to my attention recently, since the person who was convicted of shooting him escaped prison."

"That's terrible," Diane said bitterly, shaking her head. "He belongs in jail. He shot someone—a police officer. He should be in prison for the rest of his life."

"Mm-hmm," Rory agreed. "I just wanted to find out what happened. If I write an article, it might shed some light on the case again. Maybe someone has seen Jeff Levin," she explained.

"All right. I appreciate that."

"So how long were you married to Jack before he died?" she asked.

"Four years. We were together a couple years before we got married."

"And was he a cop the whole time you knew him?"

"Yes," Diane answered. "He actually tried to give me a ticket for jaywalking—that's how we met. I was just crossing the street one day. He thought I was pretty and wanted a reason to talk to me," she said with a small smile as she reminisced.

"So you met when he was working, you saw him in action?" Rory asked.

Diane laughed a little. "Oh no, he was off duty and was wearing street clothes. Which made it confusing. That's why he had to admit that he just wanted to talk to me."

Rory smiled at the story. "That's cute."

"He did love being a cop though," Diane went on. "He liked responding to calls, being the first one there."

"But you must have worried a lot," Rory said sympathetically. "Loving someone who purposely runs into danger is stressful."

Diane looked at Rory with knit brows. She nodded somberly. "Every day, there was that worry in the back of my mind. I mean, I didn't let it get in the way of living my life. But you dread that phone call. The one where someone says something terrible happened."

"I understand," Rory said. She said it quietly, but meant it.

Diane shook her head as she stared down at her coffee. "No offense, but people always say they understand. And I know they mean well, but they can't know what it's like."

"No. I do. I understand," Rory said gently.

Diane looked at her. Perhaps it was Rory's sincere tone, or the honest look in her eyes, but Diane didn't question it. She nodded. "Okay."

"It's hard," Rory said with a nod. "So, you're married to Jack's partner now, aren't you?"

"Yes. Doug," Diane answered. "He was so devastated about what happened. He quit the force afterward."

"Partners are pretty close. It must have been as hard for him as it was for you, when Jack died."

"It was. Jack was like a brother to him. Doug felt horrible about the whole thing. He kept apologizing, he felt responsible. I had to remind him that it wasn't his fault. We really leaned on each other to get through it."

"I see," Rory said. She was about to ask a question when the phone rang.

"Oh, I'm expecting a call, I need to get that."

Rory nodded and Diane got up to answer. She took the phone to the next room, though Rory could still hear.

"This is she," Diane said. "Yes, there's a problem with our checking account. We don't know where those charges are going . . . We don't know anyone in New Jersey."

From her place in the kitchen, Rory turned a page in her notebook and took notes as she eavesdropped.

"Well, neither one of us has wired any money," Diane continued. "Maybe someone got a hold of our account number. . . Okay, thanks for looking into it. Bye."

Rory quickly turned back to her original notebook page as Diane came back into the kitchen. She hung up the phone and walked back over.

"Sorry about that," she said as she sat down at the table.

"That's all right. So, Doug is a private investigator now?" Rory asked.

"Yes," Diane answered. "He has an office here in Manhattan."

"Did you guys used to hang out when Jack was still living?" Rory asked cautiously.

"Sometimes, yes. We occasionally got together at cop bars after work or on the weekends."

"Did you know Doug very well before Jack died?"

"We were good acquaintances. But we became better friends after Jack died. Why?"

"I was just wondering how well you knew Doug when you were married to Jack."

"Oh," Diane said with a frown. "Not too well. Jack, of course, talked about him at home. And he probably talked about me at work sometimes."

"I see," Rory said. She didn't press the issue. "I'm trying to talk to everyone who was involved in the robbery and subsequent shooting. Do you think Doug would be willing to sit down with me?"

"Maybe," Diane answered. "He kind of put it all behind him though. He doesn't talk about it much. But you could still ask him," she said as she reached across the table to grab a sticky note and a pen. "Here's his work number."

"Thanks," Rory said before she wrapped up the interview.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A couple hours later, Rory was sitting at a table with Tristan. They were at a diner and had just given the waitress their lunch orders. Rory silently glanced sideways out the window. Across the table, Tristan wasn't much chattier.

A few minutes ticked by before he asked, "What time did you get in last night?"

She looked over at him and answered, "Around nine thirty."

"And I was already asleep?"

"Yes."

Tristan thought a minute more. "When you came to bed, did we have—"

"Yes," Rory answered before he finished his question.

He nodded. "I thought that was too real to be a dream," he mused. "So what did you guys talk about over drinks?"

She felt her heart quicken nervously. "Oh, uh, just journalism stuff—perceptions of media and the direction the news is going in the twenty-first century. Among other things."

"That sounds like one of your grad school classes. I bet you wish you'd had one of your papers to pull out and reference," he commented. He raised a brow knowingly.

Rory just barely smiled and agreed, "Yeah. That sounds like me." She didn't say any more about the previous night. She couldn't will herself to mention anything else about it.

She turned to look out the window again. She watched cars drive down the street and people quickly walk by on the sidewalk. Everyone was in a hurry to get somewhere. She wondered what problems they had. Surely there was someone in this city who had more on their mind than her. She turned back to Tristan, but he didn't notice. He was staring intently at her hands, which were laced together and resting on the table.

"Do you ever wish you were the boss?" she asked him.

He looked up quickly, a little surprised that she'd suddenly addressed him. He thought about the question a moment before he shook his head. "Not really."

"Never?"

He shrugged. "No. The boss has to stay in the office all day. I like a little freedom."

She raised a brow. "A little?"

He grinned and shrugged again. "Okay. A lot."

"Still, you'd get to tell people what to do."

"Yeah, but I'd also be responsible for all of them. Shit rolls downhill. If I get in trouble with the captain, it's probably because he got in trouble with his boss first."

"That's true," Rory conceded. She made a mental note to add both of his points to the con side of her list.

"That stuff with Kyle still getting you down?" Tristan inquired.

"Oh, uh. Yeah, kind of—in a matter of speaking," she said. Which was true. Complaining had gotten her the job offer—odd as it was.

She decided to change the subject after their food arrived. "How is the Rivers case going?"

"Oh, it's going," he answered vaguely as he poured some ketchup next to his fries. "Erika Hart's boyfriend was at the scene of the crime around the time it happened."

"Really?"

"Mm-hmm, according to his cell phone. It places him right front of the building on Sixth Avenue when the fire took place."

"Hmm," Rory mused. "Why was he there?"

"To do what all the other guys were doing with her."

"He was sleeping with her?"

"Yeah," Tristan answered. "He's pretty sleazy, if you ask me."

"So did you arrest him?"

Tristan shook his head. "Not yet. We're looking through security cameras first. We want to make sure he went into the building before we try to pin the murder on him."

Rory frowned in thought. Freddy wouldn't have given up the name of the actual murderer yet, not before Jeff's name was cleared. Now she felt the guilty over leading Tristan astray. If the guy didn't do anything, Tristan was just wasting his time.

She tried to provide another theory, "Maybe Erika found out what he was doing and decided to do something extreme. I mean, he was using her apartment to cheat on her. And she was the only one who could get in."

"That's true. Except that she was on vacation, so she alibis out."

"But she could have gotten someone else to do her dirty work for her. Maybe she gave someone her key if she knew when Courtney was planning on being there. A woman scorned might go to drastic measures to get revenge."

"I'll make a note of that," Tristan said.

Rory paused before taking a bite of her cheeseburger. "Really?" she asked. "You think that could be what happened?"

"Oh, I'm not sure. Maybe. I'm making the mental note for my own safety. You clearly have some ideas ready if I ever wrong you." He ate a couple fries and shook his head. "Consider me warned."

She blushed a little and bit her lip. That wasn't quite her aim.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

After lunch, Rory returned to the newsroom. When she sat down at her desk, she saw the light on her phone blinking, indicating that she had a voicemail. She picked up the phone and entered her information to listen to her message. The automated woman on the voicemail told her that the message was left at nine thirty that morning.

When it played, there was a pause before she heard a deep, muffled, male voice. "Stop sniffing around, Veronica," the voice said.

Rory knit her brows and listened to it again. She didn't delete the message, but hung up the phone after the second listen.

"Huh," she said.

She glanced around the newsroom, to make sure no one could hear her. The desk next to hers was empty, as Marie was out. She took her cell phone out of her messenger bag and scrolled down the contacts. She dialed and waited.

"Hello? Rory?" Freddy answered.

"Yeah. You didn't happen to leave me an ominous voicemail this morning, did you?"

Freddy paused. "Uh, no."

"I didn't think so. It didn't sound like you. Plus, you never called me Veronica."

"So someone left you a cryptic message?" he asked.

"Yes. And it was a man. It was vaguely threatening."

"Well, it wasn't me. You told me not to call you anymore."

"True."

"Who do you think it was?"

Rory shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't talked with Derek Crabtree yet, but I did leave a message for him with my work number. And I interviewed Jack Young's widow this morning."

"I guess you can rule her out."

"Mm-hmm," she muttered as she thought about it. "Someone doesn't like that I'm looking into the robbery. I don't want to sound like I'm on the X-Files, but the truth is out there."

"Then someone must be worried that you're going to find it," Freddy said eagerly.

"That's my guess," Rory said. "I have to go. I need to report this."

"Report it to who?" he asked quickly.

"Calm down," she said. "I'm just going to call the non-emergency number for the police. They won't even be able to do much about it." She also rationalized that Tristan wouldn't be able to do anything about it, either. Telling him would only make him worry. "I just want it reported."

"Oh. Okay."

"I'll talk to you when I know more," she said before hanging up.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Rory was home alone later that evening. Tristan had called her earlier, to let her know that he'd be working late. So she was sitting on the couch, light from a single lamp shined down on two pro-con lists that were on her lap. One was labeled New York, and the other, South Carolina.

Her laptop was open on the coffee table. She rubbed her face and shook her head. Not knowing what to do, she put the notebook on the coffee table and picked up her cell phone. She dialed and waited for the comforting voice of her mother.

"Hello?" Lorelai answered a few seconds later.

"Mom?" Rory said in a meek voice.

"Yeah, what is it? Is something wrong?" Lorelai asked, concerned with her daughter's tone.

"I need a distraction."

"From what?"

"Life."

"Uh-oh. Are you and Tristan still on the outs?"

"No," Rory answered. "We're fine."

"Good. We'll need him for sex appeal when we get our reality TV show."

Rory closed her eyes and shook her head. "That sentence was wrong on so many levels."

"What?"

"For one thing, no one wants to watch our lives," she said, addressing the less disturbing part of her mother's statement.

"Why wouldn't they?"

"Because we aren't interesting enough."

"Hey, speak for yourself. I'm very interesting. Besides, what's the difference between us and the Kardashian's?"

"We have actual jobs?"

"Exactly. See? We're already ahead."

Rory shook her head again. "Let it go. We aren't getting our own show."

"We'll come back to this later. What do you need a distraction from?" Lorelai asked.

Rory sighed. "Last night I was offered an editor job."

"Hey, that's great," Lorelai complimented. "Congratulations."

"It's in South Carolina."

"Oh. So are you going to take it?"

"I have to," Rory answered a little tonelessly.

"You do? Why?"

"Because. I have an advanced degree now—which I pointed out last week when I indicated I should get more responsibility at work. And Jimmy delivered. He went to the trouble of asking around and finding someone who needed an editor."

"Oh. And that means you have to take the job?"

"It isn't just that. It's the Spartanburg Herald-Journal."

"Is that supposed to mean something?"

Rory nodded. "Do you know who owns the Herald-Journal?"

"Should I?" Lorelai asked.

"The New York Times Company."

"Ah. And that means you have to take a job there?" Lorelai asked again.

"Well, it could mean getting my foot in the door at The Times. And maybe I could work my way back to New York City one day. And it's The Times," Rory stressed. "It's the Holy Grail for journalists."

"Okay, but is it your Holy Grail?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, when you were a kid, I don't really remember you telling everyone that you want to go work for The New York Times when you grew up."

"So you don't think I should take it?"

"That isn't what I'm saying," Lorelai said. "I'm just saying that you don't have to take the job if you don't want to."

"But it is career advancement," Rory objected. "Isn't that what you're supposed to do in life? Go as far as you can in your career? Keep climbing the latter until you're at the top? Look at you. You didn't stop until you opened your own inn. Grandpa started his own company. And Luke owns the diner. You've all set the bar really high. I can't stop until I start my own paper," she rambled.

"Calm down. You don't have to start your own paper," Lorelai said. "Don't worry about us. You have your own goals."

"Yeah, foreign correspondent—everyone knows. But what have I done to obtain it lately?" Rory asked. She went on to answer her own question, "Nothing. I haven't done anything to become a foreign correspondent. I've let myself get comfortable in New York at the Daily News."

"There isn't anything wrong with that, if you like it," Lorelai reasoned.

"It was just supposed to be temporary, though. Not forever. It was just a stepping stone to—bigger, more important things," Rory said, remembering how Tristan had phrased it the previous Friday night.

She shook her head. "But maybe it's time to let the dream go," she said, sounding defeated. "In which case, I should be working towards being an editor—and take the job."

"Okay, so take it."

"Really?"

"Sure. Goals can change. No one will think less of you for changing yours."

"So that's it then. I should take the job and start on my new path," she said, staring at the other side of the room.

"Not necessarily," Lorelai said. "You don't have to let your correspondent dream go if it's still what you want to do."

"Well how am I going to get there?" Rory asked helplessly. "I don't think investigating crime is helping me much. I mean, I'm not exactly making Forbes's list of 100 Most Powerful Women."

"On the other hand, you're desensitized to dead bodies."

"Sure," Rory said flatly.

"And everyone's path is different. There isn't one path that leads to certain journalism jobs, is there?"

"No," she admitted. "But in that case, wouldn't editor still look better on my resume? Even if it's at a small paper?"

"Maybe," Lorelai conceded.

"Plus, I don't like it when someone needs to smooth things over with the police at the Daily News. They depend on me for that. Maybe it's time to move on."

Lorelai asked slowly, "Speaking of the police, does Tristan have an opinion about what you should do?"

"No."

"None?"

Rory shrugged. "I haven't told him about it."

"Why not?"

"I don't know," she answered, starting to feel a lump rise in her throat. "We had lunch today and I just couldn't do it."

"Are you afraid he'll try to make you stay?"

"No. Yes. I don't know," she said, shaking her head. Now tears were swimming at the bottom of her eyes. She swallowed hard and blinked fast.

"Are you afraid of what will happen with him if you do move?" Lorelai asked.

Rory didn't respond right away. Finally, she answered, "Yes. When I was looking through old articles from the Daily News, I came across one that said people from Manhattan don't like to commute farther than Brooklyn for a relationship."

"You guys aren't really from New York though."

"That seems like a technicality," Rory said. "And besides, some people don't like long distance relationships. It's like moving . . . backwards."

"Some people?" Lorelai asked.

"Yes."

"The opposite of the direction you want things to do—as you said last week."

Rory didn't respond.

Lorelai went on slowly, "You know, you don't have to try a long distance relationship."

"I know. We could break up instead," Rory said dejectedly.

"That isn't where I was going."

"Where were you going then?"

"You could have your cake and eat it too."

"Meaning?"

"Well, if you decide to take the job, you could ask Tristan to go with you."

"No I couldn't," Rory said in a small voice.

"Why not?"

"Because. Then he'd have to decide to stay or go. And he could say no."

"Or he could say yes."

Rory shook her head. "He likes New York City. It's why he moved here."

"He likes you too, though."

Rory went on, "He likes his job here."

"I bet there are jobs in South Carolina."

She shook her head and glanced at the Internet page displayed on her laptop screen. "Not like here. Spartanburg's police force is really small."

"Then he'd probably get more to do," Lorelai reasoned.

Rory shook her head again. "That isn't what he wants. He likes what he does now. He likes driving his car and strutting around in a suit. People can't tell until they pass him and see his gun that he's a cop. And even then, they just whisper to each other and wonder if he's a detective. I know he likes it," she insisted. "He doesn't even know what he'd do instead."

"What about the FBI? That could be cool," Lorelai suggested.

"He doesn't really like the feds," Rory said as she clicked on a different tab. "Plus, they have to train for twenty-one weeks and then don't get a choice about where they go."

"Oh. Well, I'm sure there are plenty of other things."

"Nothing that he'd want to do. Trust me," she said matter-of-factly, "he has several reasons to like his job. Take the other week for example. I think he was auditioning for a role in the next sequel of the Fast and the Furious."

She didn't wait to hear what her mother had to say before she continued, "He doesn't even want to move in with me here. Why would he want to move all the way to South Carolina with me?" Having unsuccessfully blinked the tears back, they were silently falling down her cheeks.

"He doesn't want to move in? I thought he was practically moved in already."

"Well he doesn't want to officially. I asked him—basically."

"What do you mean 'basically'?"

"I mean, I asked what he's going to do when his lease is up, since he doesn't stay at his apartment, but does stay at mine. He just said he didn't think Grandma and Grandpa would like us 'playing house'. Whatever that means."

"So he didn't really say no?"

"Not exactly. But he didn't say yes either," Rory said. She muttered, "Stupid lawyers and their grey area." She sighed. "Just tell me what to do. Please. Mother knows best. I'll do whatever you think is best. We'll see how the cookie crumbles after that."

"I'm not going to decide for you," Lorelai said. "And you know that. So I'll just leave you with some motherly advice. Maybe it'll make you feel better about whatever you decide."

"Great. Something to confuse me more."

"Just listen. You can put this wherever you think it belongs on your pro-con lists," Lorelai said. "Sometimes goals in life change. Most people's do and it's okay," she said. "Second, not all life experiences belong on a resume, but that doesn't make them any less important, or . . . worth experiencing."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

The next morning, Rory walked to her desk after the staff meeting. She sat down and got to work on her article for the next issue of the paper. She was tired of writing frivolous pieces. She wanted to report the news. The news was important. If she took the editor job, she'd be all kinds of important. The news would go through her before it was published.

She was proof reading what she'd written when Kyle approached her. "Hey Rory, this was left for you at the front desk."

"Thanks," she said as she took an envelope he handed over. When she noticed him hovering, she looked up at him, "Are you interested in what's in here?" she asked, indicating the envelope.

"Oh, uh, no," he said a little timidly.

She sighed. "The police have a suspect for Courtney Rivers' murder. Erika Hart's boyfriend was in the area and had a key to her apartment."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, thanks. I'll make sure Jimmy puts your name in the by-line."

"Don't worry about it," she said as Kyle walked away.

She looked down at the envelope, which was addressed to Veronica More. She opened it and pulled out a sheet of paper that was folded into thirds. She opened the paper and saw a short message, typed in large font. It warned, 'If you know what's good for you, you'll mind your own business'.

Rory wondered why she was getting another message before she'd even talked to anyone else about the robbery. And it was definitely about the robbery. Her other article wasn't likely to make anyone upset. Plus, her non-crime articles had her real name in the by-line. She was hitting a nerve with someone.

She wondered if she would be able to figure out who it was. If she took the editor job, none of this would matter. She could just leave these problems here in New York. The thought wasn't an unpleasant one.

Rory sighed and stood up. She walked to the lobby and stopped at the reception desk.

"Do you know who sent me this?" she asked the executive assistant. She held up the envelope for the woman behind the desk to see.

The woman shook her head. "A messenger dropped it off during the staff meeting."

"I see. Thanks," Rory said before heading back to her desk.

She sat down and drummed her fingers on her desk for a moment, thinking about what she should do. She picked her phone up to report the message first. Since it was a physical threat, they were sending someone down.

When Rory hung up, she knew what she had to do. She had to tell Tristan or he'd probably find out some other way—then she'd have to explain. Preemptive action was a better idea. She took her cell phone out and hit the speed dial.

"DuGrey," he answered after a couple rings.

"I have to tell you something, but I don't want you to worry."

"I'm listening, but not making any promises."

"Someone sent me a slightly threatening message today," she explained.

"What do you mean by 'slightly threatening'?"

"It says that I should mind my own business. If I know what's good for me," she answered, reading from the paper.

There was a pause as Tristan thought about it. "I'll be there in about ten minutes."

"No, don't. You're working, and I already reported it. You don't need to come. This kind of thing isn't your job."

"You're my job."

"No I'm not. Stay at work. Someone else will take care of it. They'll just feel like you're looking over their shoulder if you come, too."

"That's because I'll be looking over their shoulder."

"No you won't," she insisted. "Because you're staying at work. I just wanted to let you know so you don't find out when you're reading random police reports."

"I don't really do that."

"Well, on the off chance that you did, I wanted you to find out from me instead."

Tristan sighed on the other end. "I'd really rather come down there myself."

"It's fine. Whoever sent me this note doesn't even know anything about me. The envelope was addressed to my pseudonym. If it said Rory, I'd be worried," she said. And she was honest about that one, since she knew from experience.

"What are you doing, that someone wants you to keep your nose out of their business?"

Rory hesitated. She wasn't sure how much Tristan knew about the robbery case. "You know what I've been looking into. You were the one to get me the police reports."

"You're still investigating that?" he asked. "Is that guy still calling you—pretending to be a cop?"

"No," she answered truthfully. "I told him to stop."

"How do you know he isn't still messing with you?"

"Because it didn't sound like him."

"What do you mean it didn't sound like him? It was a note."

She cringed. He had her there. "This is the second message," she admitted. "The first one was a voicemail yesterday."

"Yesterday?" Tristan asked angrily. "You didn't say anything about that."

"I know. I didn't want you to worry."

"Let me decide what I worry about."

"Reporters get threatened for snooping around all the time. It's not a big deal."

"It is too a big deal," he countered.

"No it isn't. It just means someone doesn't want the truth to come out," she said. "Every good reporter gets threatened every now and then. And I'm an investigative journalist. It means I'm doing my job right."

"I told you to be careful," he said impatiently.

"Yeah, well, you know what? I can think of a couple specific times where you haven't thought about your safety. I worry about you every day, so now you know what it's like," she said, and hoped she didn't sound too harsh.

"That was a low blow."

"It doesn't make it less true."

"Doesn't that mean I get to drop everything to go make sure you're okay," he muttered.

"I'm fine," she insisted. "And I dropped everything to go yell at you. Now, I have to get back to work, and so do you. Because you're staying at work, right?"

"I guess so," he sulked unhappily.

"Good. I will see you later," she said before hanging up.

She picked up her desk phone and dialed a number that worked for her the last time she'd tried it. It was Derek Crabtree's number.

"Hello?" a man answered.

"Hi, this is Veronica More from the Daily News. I left a message for you the other day."

"Oh, uh, right. Sorry I didn't get back to you."

"That's okay," she said reassuringly. "I'd like to talk to you about the robbery you were involved in six years ago. Is now a good time?"

"Uh, I guess so," Derek said slowly.

"Great. I was wondering if you knew that Jeff Levin escaped from prison a few months ago."

"Oh, did he?" Derek said, in a voice that did not convince Rory. "No, I didn't know that."

"I watched the surveillance video where you two cased the jewelry store. Can you tell me what happened when you went back to rob it? I would go to prison to ask Jeff, but he isn't there."

"Right. I guess he's on the run."

"Presumably," Rory said, all business like. "So, what happened? You're one of only three people who know."

"Well, uh, we were in the store, taking jewelry from the cases, when two cops showed up," Derek explained.

"You and Jeff didn't have any weapons, did you?" Rory asked. She had the police reports with the statements in front of her, as well as the court transcripts.

"No."

"So what happened when the police showed up?"

"Well, Jeff tried to run away, but one of those cops got in his way—"

"Jack Young?" Rory prodded, wondering if she could trip him up.

"Uh, yeah, that's his name. So Jeff struggled with him and got his gun. The he shot the other guy."

"You mean he shot Jack," she said clearly.

"Yeah."

"But the gun used to kill him was his partner's, Douglas Aldred," she countered.

"Oh, right. Yeah, that's right. I got them mixed up—it's been a few years. Jeff shot Young with Aldred's gun."

"Jeff claimed that he ran away before any shots were fired."

"He probably didn't want to go to jail."

Rory raised a brow and made a sarcastic expression. "Probably." She thought about the phone call Diane Aldred answered during their interview. Surely it was the bank that had called her. "Have you talked to Officer Aldred since the trial?"

"Oh, um, is he still a cop?"

"No. You're right. He quit the force. You knew that?"

"I heard it somewhere."

"Sure. So, have you contacted each other?"
"Uh, no. Why?"

"I was just wondering. Thanks for talking with me," Rory said.

"Hey, is this going in the paper?" Derek asked quickly.

"I'm not sure," she answered. "But everything you said is on the record."

"Oh, it is?"

"Yes. But don't worry, you haven't changed your story," she said, though not completely truthful.

"Right, okay," he said before they ended the call.

Rory didn't hang up. She pressed the receiver and dialed another number. It was the number Diane Aldred provided her.

"Aldred," a man answered.

"Hi, this is Veronica More, from the Daily News. I was wondering if you would talk to me about the robbery where your partner was shot and killed."

"I don't like to talk about that," Douglas said curtly.

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Neither does my wife," he went on. "So leave her alone."

"Okay," Rory said slowly. "I didn't mean to upset anyone."

"Then just let it alone. It's in the past. Leave it there," he said. "It was a terrible thing that guy did. We're all moving on."

"I'm sorry for bringing it up again," Rory apologized. "And I'm sorry for bothering you."

They ended the call and she hung up. She picked up her cell phone to make one more call.

"Hello?" Freddy answered.

"It's Rory. Are you and—your brother—at home?" she asked, glancing around the newsroom as she said it.

"Yeah. Why?"

"I need to talk to him," she said quietly. "I got another threat today. After the police come to file the report, I'll leave for your place."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

As promised, Rory was at Freddy's apartment within two hours. She was sitting at the small kitchen table across from the two brothers. She had her messenger bag unloaded all over the table. She wanted to carefully compare the witness accounts.

"So you've been getting threatened?" Jeff asked her.

"Yes," she answered as she took out her pen and a blank sheet of notebook paper.

"Sorry—for him," Jeff said, glaring at his brother. "This is entirely his fault."

"That's not true," Freddy protested. "You were the one to escape prison."

Rory rolled her eyes. "That's enough. Arguing won't help anything. And I already reported the threat."

"Have you been able to figure out what happened?" Freddy asked.

"Not really. I got a hold of Derek Crabtree. He got a couple details mixed up."

"So you think he did it?" Jeff asked slowly.

"I don't know. He wasn't very sure of himself. And Aldred didn't want to talk at all. But sometimes people don't like to talk to reporters—especially cops. Even if he isn't one anymore."

"So maybe he did it," Freddy said.

"Well," Rory said, a bit dryly, "one of them obviously did. I just don't know how I'm going to prove it." She turned to Jeff. "I need you to tell me what happened again. And be as detailed as possible."

"Okay," Jeff said before he went through the night of the robbery again.

When he was finished, she went back to her notes from her discussion with Crabtree. "You're sure Young was close to you when you ran out of the store?"

Jeff nodded. "Positive. He tried to stop me, but I slipped out."

"Then you couldn't have struggled with Aldred, if he was on the other side of the store."

"Right," he said, brightening at the thought.

"Where was Derek when you ran out?"

"On the opposite side of a jewelry case, not in a good place to get away."

"How close was he to Aldred?"

Jeff shrugged. "I'm not sure."

Rory thought about it and wondered if Derek Crabtree was the one to struggle with Aldred. She shook her head. That still didn't make sense. She sighed and started gathering her things. "I'll have to think about this. Maybe I'll be able to persuade Aldred to talk."

Freddy picked up one of the notebooks on the table. "What's this?" he asked as he read down the columns.

"Oh," Rory said, glancing at the notebook. "It's a pro-con list."

"For what?"

She sighed again before answering, "I got an offer for an editor job. It's in South Carolina."

"When do you have to leave?" Freddy asked, concerned.

"I don't know if I'm taking it."

He pointed to one of the pros on the New York list. "Your boyfriend won't go with you?" he asked. "Is that why you might not take it?"

She shook her head. "No. I haven't told him about it."

"Why not?"

"Because. I haven't decided what to do yet."

"So?"

She silently snatched her notebook away from him and put it in her messenger bag. "So. It's complicated."

"Oh, I see," Freddy said.

"You do not," she said as she continued to put her things in her bag.

"Yes I do. I've seen an episode of How I Met Your Mother just like this. It's the classic choice between love and career."

"It is not," she muttered. "It's about the direction of my career. And I don't make decisions about my career based on the guy I'm seeing. It's not how I roll."

"So you're going to find out what happens with him after you decide?"

Rory shrugged and glowered.

Freddy watched her for a moment. "Ah. So he's just some guy then."

"I didn't say that."

"Why don't you mind your own business?" Jeff asked his brother.

"I second that," Rory agreed.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A couple hours later, Tristan was at the precinct, next to his partner's desk. They were dealing with an irate Erika Hart. Mark had just broken the news to her about her less-than-faithful boyfriend and she was not taking it well.

"I can't believe him!" the blonde woman said loudly. "In my apartment?"

Mark didn't say anything, he just glanced at Tristan grimly. Tristan didn't say anything either.

"That whore!" Erika said angrily.

As Mark tried to calm her down, Tristan noticed a young guy a few feet away, who looked like he was trying to catch his attention.

"Can I help you?"

"Uh, yeah. I live below her," the young man said, nodding at Erika—who had not noticed another person was watching her.

"Okay. Do you know something about what was going on up there?"

"Yeah."

Tristan grabbed a notebook from his desk and tilted his head in the direction of an interrogation room. "Let's go in here, where we can hear each other."

They both went into the small room and sat down across from each other at the table.

"What's your name?" Tristan asked, pen poised to write.

"Freddy. Freddy—Schwartz," he answered.

"What's your address?"

Freddy gave the information requested.

"So you live below Erika Hart?" Tristan asked.

"Yes. And there's an air vent up by my ceiling, so I can hear a lot of what goes on up there."

"Such as?" Tristan asked with a raised brow.

Freddy didn't answer right away. He looked a little nervous as his eyes darted around a little. But when he spoke, he sounded calm and cool, "Could I talk to the reporter?"

Tristan did not respond immediately. "Who?"
Freddy nodded. "The reporter. I'd rather talk to her."

"What reporter?" Tristan asked coldly.

"You of all people know which one," Freddy said, a little more confident.

Tristan shook his head slowly. "Nope. I really don't." He gave the kid a good look, and focused more than he had before. He thought Freddy looked vaguely familiar, but couldn't place him.

"Well she knows me. I pretended to be a police source last week."

Tristan reached across the table and grabbed Freddy's shirt collar. He pulled Freddy closer so he could get in his face. "Are you the one who threatened her?" he demanded.

Freddy had wide eyes, but answered, "Threatened who?"

Tristan held him there for a few seconds before he roughly let him go. He crossed his arms and sat back in his chair. He glared across the table angrily.

"I know stuff."
"Then tell me," Tristan said. "I'm the one investigating this murder."

"I can plead the fifth, can't I?" Freddy asked.

"Not really. You aren't a suspect. You're just obstructing justice."

"Oh," Freddy said, paling slightly.

"Detective, a word," Captain Meyer said over the intercom.

Tristan stood up and left Freddy in the room.

His boss was standing at the two-way mirror. "That kid knows something about your case?" Meyer asked.

Tristan shrugged. "That's what he says."

"Why won't he talk to you?"

"Hell if I know. What's the point of coming down here if he isn't going to tell me what he knows?"

The captain thought a moment. "Call her."

Tristan frowned. "Call who?"

"The reporter."

"What reporter?" Tristan asked irritably.

"Your reporter. Ask her if she'll talk to him."

"What? No," he retorted.

"They can sit right in there and we can watch, if she's willing to talk to him."

"I'm not asking her to do that."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Meanwhile, Rory was on the sky deck of the Empire State Building. She wasn't completely sure how she'd ended up there. She had her arms propped up on the edge of the building as she gazed out at the city that stretched out before her.

She didn't know what to do. She really did love New York City. She moved there for a reason. The fast paced city had lured her in. Plus, it was the media capitol of the world. It seemed like a logical place for a journalist.

She thought about all the reasons why she wanted to become a foreign correspondent. It was always her go-to answer when anyone asked what she wanted to do with her life. And she knew why she wanted to do it, too. She wanted to see world events as they happened. She wanted to tell others the truth about what was going on. She wanted to be a part of something big.

New York was big, she considered. But she wanted to see the world while she reported the big stories. New York City wasn't the whole world. She'd gotten good at reporting the city's crime, and she liked her job, but would she be settling if she stayed?

She'd set a high standard for herself, with foreign correspondence. But she never doubted that she'd reach it someday. When had it become a hypothetical goal? She wasn't sure.

She considered her previous desire to report politics. That wasn't all it was cracked up to be. It didn't seem like the facts mattered—substance took a back seat to the horse and pony show. The press looked as silly as the politicians they had to follow. What if she finally reached her goal, just to find out that she didn't like it, too? And what would she have to give up on the way?

Rory sighed and turned a little, toward Times Square. The city had a lot to offer, there was no doubt about that. In fact, she thought, it had everything. When she looked straight ahead, she could practically see Central Park. All she had to do was turn around to get a view of the Statue of Liberty.

She thought about the editor job. It would definitely look impressive on her resume. It would be a good experience, too. But she remembered what Tristan said, the boss has to stay in the office all day. She wouldn't get to leave whenever she wanted. She wouldn't be able to sneak off to the Empire State Building in the middle of the afternoon. Not that South Carolina had an Empire State Building to sneak off to. She gave her head a mental shake. She couldn't make a life changing decision based on tourist attractions.

She wondered if being editor would lead her in the right direction. It wasn't like the Herald-Journal had a foreign desk. Those stories came from the Associate Press, just like at the Daily News. Maybe she'd end up rising through the ranks of the business instead. But editors didn't get to write much—she remembered. Was she ready to put away her pen and stop reporting the news? Then again, there was The Times . . . But she probably shouldn't put her eggs in that basket. There was no way of knowing whether or not she could get back to New York just by working at one of their papers.

Then she thought about Tristan. And it made her feel sad. She didn't know what he'd do if she took the job. Would he break up with her, if he thought she was leaving him for her career? Would he take it personally? Should she just ask him to go? This could be telling, though. If he didn't want to go with her to South Carolina, it might indicate where else he wouldn't go.

She swallowed hard and shook her head. She felt guilty for selling him short. She should give him some credit. Maybe he would go with her—if she asked. That would require courage on her part. She'd have to set aside her fear of freaking him out about the future if she really wanted him in it.

Rory exhaled heavily. All this thinking was giving her a tension headache. She wondered why her feet had brought her up here in the first place, it hadn't done any good. Plus, it was really hot out. She looked down at her watch and a tear fell on her wrist. She sniffled a bit and put a hand to her cheek. Was she crying? She hadn't realized.

She needed to get back to work. She hadn't told anyone where she was. Her cell phone buzzed and she checked the caller ID. It was James. She wondered why her ears weren't ringing.

"Hello?" she answered as she headed for the elevator.

"Hey, where are you?" he asked.

"Out," she answered vaguely.

"The police are here for you."

"What? You mean Tristan?" she asked slowly.

"No. A couple of uniforms. They say they're supposed to take you to the police station."

Rory felt her pulse speed up nervously. It finally happened. She was in trouble and they were bringing her in. "Why?"

"I don't know."

"Okay. I'll uh, be right there."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A little while later, Rory walked out of the elevator at the third floor of the twenty-first precinct. She glanced around the squad room until she saw Tristan, standing next to a two-way mirror with his arms crossed and scowling. She took her time as she walked in his direction. Though her mind had raced on the ride over, she hadn't thought of an explanation.

This was it, she thought. He found out what she knew and he was going to break up with her. She had no choice but to take the job in South Carolina now. She didn't have to worry about a long distance relationship or asking him to go along. It wouldn't matter. Too bad it didn't make her feel any better. She only hoped that he'd take her aside to cut her loose, she couldn't take it if he dumped her in front of everyone.

"Hey," she said nervously when she'd reached him.

He looked at her and she saw his jaw unclench. He silently took her arm and led her over to his desk. He picked up an iced coffee and handed it to her.

She frowned as she looked down at the beverage and then back up at him. "What's this for?" Maybe it was to soften the blow, she thought.

"In apology that my boss had you come here," Tristan explained. "I tried to talk him out of it. This isn't your problem."

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Some guy showed up. He said he wants to talk with you—instead of us."

"What guy?"

Tristan nodded over at the window that looked into one of the interrogation rooms.

Rory gasped. "Oh my God. Is that Freddy?"

"Yeah. Freddy Schwartz."

Schwartz, Rory thought. So Tristan couldn't know about Jeff. "What is he doing here?" she asked.

"He says he knows you," Tristan answered. He looked back at Rory with furrowed brows. "So you do know him?"

Rory nodded.

"Where do I know him from?" he asked.

"The coffee stand at the student center. You know, at Columbia. You've bought coffee from him."

"That's it," Tristan said. He shook his head. "That was bothering me."

"That isn't all," Rory went on. "He was the one calling me last week. With information about your case."

"Yeah, he said he lives below Erika Hart. He'd like to continue talking to you about it."

"Why?" she asked in a worried tone.

"I don't know. Just tell Meyer you don't want to do it. He can't make you act on our behalf. Tell him no and go back to work."

Rory thought about it. She was too curious about what Freddy was up to now. "I'll do it."

"You really don't have to."

"No, it's okay. I want to help."

Tristan sighed. "Fine." He led her over to the interrogation room and opened the door. "I'll be right out here."

Rory felt a little nervous when she saw Mark and Captain Meyer head over to the window to join Tristan. They'd all be watching and listening. She was used to people reading polished final drafts after she interviewed people. She wondered how broadcast journalists did it. It seemed like a lot of pressure.

When Freddy saw her, he greeted her, "Hi Rory."

She sat down across from him. "Freddy," she said curtly—without smiling. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm just trying to help."

"Why do you want to talk to me?"

Freddy shrugged. "You're nicer. Although I did get the chance to chat with your boyfriend. And I was wondering, what do you see in him?"

Rory stared at Freddy for a moment before she dryly answered, "He has excellent table manners."

"Ah, that explains it."

"What are you doing here?" she asked again.

"I told you, I want to help—with the Courtney Rivers murder. I live below Erika Hart and could hear everything that went on up in her apartment," Freddy explained. "Did you pass along the stuff I told you?"

"Yes."

"All of it?"

Rory hesitated a moment. "No."

"What did you leave out?"

"You said you killed Courtney. But you were working when she was killed. And I didn't want to pass on false information."

"Is that the only reason?"

She exhaled heavily. She was frustrated that Freddy was running things. "No," she answered. She paused before continuing, "I didn't know you were lying. And you threated to kill Tristan if I told." She felt her face get warm, embarrassed for falling for the empty threat.

"So?"

She looked at him incredulously. "So I like him alive."

Freddy shrugged and smirked just a little. "He's just some guy."

Rory scowled. "No he isn't. He's my boyfriend."

"You could find a new one. There are lots of places to find other guys," Freddy said with a brow raised pointedly.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I don't want a new one," she said through gritted teeth. "I want to keep the one that I have." She leaned in toward Freddy. "What are you doing?"

"I'm helping."

She sat back. "Then let's get back to Courtney Rivers."

"Okay," he agreed. "I've been wondering, why didn't you write about the stuff I told you about her murder?"

"Because you claimed to be the police, and you aren't. You lacked credibility."

"So? A source is a source. You're just trying to sell papers."

"That's not—I mean I—," Rory started, but she didn't know where to go with her excuse. She was flustered. "It would have made the police look bad—to write something they didn't know about."

"That's their problem."

"If I want them to respect what I do, then I have to respect what they do."

"Mm-hmm. Do you do that a lot?"

"Do what?"

"Withhold information longer than other reporters would."

She shrugged. "It depends on the case."

"The case? Or the person investigating?"

Rory averted her eyes, annoyed that she was blatantly being called out on what she did—or didn't—report, and why.

Freddy continued. "I think you consider more than your career when you're at work."

"It's—I don't," she stuttered, but she was unable to come up with a convincing argument.

She wondered how long this had been the case. She had a sneaking suspicion it was about two years. What excuse had she been telling herself? So much for leaving Tristan out and watching the cookie crumble. She was starting to think that Freddy might be an evil genius.

Determined to get the upper hand in the interview—or whatever this was—Rory changed the subject and asked, "Did you know Courtney Rivers was sleeping with a bunch of men for money?"

Seeing that Rory was finished talking about her priorities in life, Freddy answered, "Yes."

"Was Erika Hart's boyfriend sleeping with her?"

"Yes."

"You said the police should look into him. Did he kill Courtney?"

"I'm not sure. But he's not a good guy."

Rory narrowed her eyes at him. "Why won't you just tell everyone who did do it?"

"Because I wasn't there at the time. I just know of some people who it could be."

She was tired of talking to Freddy. He wasn't going to say more anyway. So she stood up and walked out of the interrogation room. She looked at the people who were watching, but it was only Mark and Captain Meyer. With knit brows, she looked around the precinct and saw Tristan standing next to his desk. He was talking into his cell phone and had his back turned.

Mark headed into the interrogation room—maybe he wanted to try to get more out of Freddy—and Rory headed over to Tristan. When he turned, he saw her approaching him.

"I have to go," he said quickly. "I'll see you later." He put the phone in his pocket and looked at her with raised brows.

"I'm sorry," Rory said. "I should have told you what was going on. But I was scared," she said with tears in her eyes. "I didn't want anything bad to happen to you. I was so scared when you left Saturday morning."

He thought back for a moment. "That explains a couple things. Don't worry about it," he said. "It's okay." He put an arm around her shoulders and rubbed her arm comfortingly.

She hugged him and shook her head. "No it isn't. I should have just said something. I was stupid."

"No you weren't. It was that jerk in there."

"Right. Freddy."

"I'm going to keep him in a holding cell overnight."

"For what?"

Tristan shrugged. "I'm not picky."

"Can you do that?"

"Sure. He pretended to be a cop. That'll get him a year in prison."

"Does it count if it was over the phone?"

"I don't really care. He messed with you for his own entertainment. He can stay in jail for a night."

"Today must be one of those days where patent law looks pretty good," she commented.

Tristan laughed a little and shook his head. "Nah, you were right. I don't want to do that."

"Right," she agreed solemnly and averted her gaze.

"Besides, I was thinking too small. If I go into law, it should at least be worth my while. Like International Criminal Court."

Rory knit her brows and looked back up at him. "Don't they hold court in the Netherlands?"

"Yeah, at The Hague," he said with a nod. "Or there's Interpol."

"The band?"

He grinned and poked her in the side. "No silly. The international police," he clarified. "And the United Nations has police, too. It'd be pretty hard for me to get bored since there are so many member countries."

She stared at him for a moment as she processed what he was saying. "So you're thinking of going global?"

Tristan shrugged and nodded. "Sure. It's practical to think about what else I can do."

"That sounds prudent," she agreed. "And you think you might have to—one day?"

He nodded again. "Probably," he answered. "Plus, why should I limit my talents to New York, when I can be making the world safer?"

She continued to stare at him and smiled a little. For the first time that week, she felt better. She could stop thinking so hard. "Will you—"

"DuGrey," the captain said from the doorway of his office. Both Tristan and Rory looked over. "Get over here," Captain Meyer said.

Tristan nodded. "Just a minute." He steered Rory around his desk and walked her out to the hallway, in front of the elevator. While they waited, he asked, "Were you saying something?"

"Oh, yeah. Will you be coming over tonight?"

"Where else would I go?" he asked as his answer. "But I'll be late. I have to go to Hartford."

"Your grandfather summoned you?"

"Yeah. So I have to go."

"Okay. Do you want me to go along?"

"No," Tristan answered quickly. "I mean, you should go home and get some rest. You've had a stressful week."

He had no idea, Rory thought. "Okay," she said as the door opened. As the elevator doors opened, she hugged him quickly and he tilted his head down to meet her for a kiss. "See you tonight," she said before they parted.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

"Check mate," Janlen DuGrey said as he moved his white playing piece.

"You win again," Tristan said. They were seated in the living room of Janlen's Hartford mansion. Tristan had his cheek resting against his fist as he looked down at the board in front of him. He started moving his black pieces back to their assigned squares. "Do you want to play again?"

"Not really," Janlen answered. He sat back in his chair. "Partly because it's not fun to play when my opponent doesn't have his head in the game."

"Oh, sorry," Tristan muttered vaguely.

"I'm a little distracted as well, though, since I'm waiting with baited breath to find out why you asked to come over tonight. Especially since you missed dinner," Janlen said.

"Sorry I was late. I had to work."

"It's no problem. But still, certainly you didn't come all the way here to lose at chess."

Tristan lifted his eyes and shook his head no.

"Well, don't hold out any longer. I can't stand the intrigue."