A/N: Updating two chapter at once.
Chapter IX – "A Long Day"
Later in the night, Lauren returned home, feeling like crap. Letting out a loaded sigh, she dropped her key in the bowl on the counter in the hall, and threw her shoes off. Barefoot, she padded to her living room and fixed herself a strong drink.
It had been a long day. Dealing with Reese was hard enough as it was, but when Carter had added into the mix, the game had upped to another level. The woman was a good detective, always suspicious and mindful, and she would have really appreciated it if the brunt of her suspicion wasn't focused on herself.
Even with just three days she had understood the truth; her "change of scenery" wasn't going to be something peaceful or pleasant.
Cursing again at the man who had brought her into this trouble, she dropped herself on the couch and took the folder he had given her. She opened the yellow dossier, and looked at the photos inside. Razor was there of course with all of her sharp glory, but the photo that had taken her surprised the most had been the Cheesecake Factory snapshot. She took it, and looked at the girl. The girl who had looked back at her seemed so young, so...different. She had been ready to challenge the world, and she had been ready to believe that she could have won. She bit her lip until she drew blood, then threw the photo away with curt movement. Having Reese knowing that she had been worked in a strip club was bad enough, but him also knowing that she used to work as a waitress...was disturbing, like something of her had been violated. A dozen years ago she would have called it her innocence, but life had taught her better.
November, 1997
Much like every bit of her body, her hands were sweating. Closing her eyes as sweat started to fill inside, she tightened her hands on the bars where Coach Matthews had hanged her in the air on the Cadillac reformer. The bounds around her ankles had started to cut her flesh even over the elastic material of the tights she was wearing. Her body shook violently as soon as she moved her muscles, and she let out a grunt close to a scream, her grip shaking on trembling muscles. "Hold it, hold it," the coach warned almost in disinterest as he sat under her on the tortuous device's mat, "If you drop, you'll do another fifty set on the mat."
Fifty set on the mat... She opened her eyes, her sight almost blackening, but the threat was enough motivation to straighten her clutch on the bars. And, everything, that's what I want from you, everything. She hadn't understood what exactly Coach Matthews had meant by those words, but now she knew. Closing her eyes, she tightened her grip as if her life depended on it. Everything. If that was what it took, she was going to give it. Everything.
Another five minutes later, the torture finished. The coach freed her from the bounds, and called Clara that was making her own set at the other side of gymnastic room. "Clara, help Lauren stretch," he ordered to the blonde girl then he turned back to her. "We need to straighten your muscles, more elasticity, and your posture needs more work...hmm..." he commented as she lay on her back on the mat, breathing hard, every muscle in her body aching, "Let's put another hour to your daily routine—"
Slightly moving up from the mat, she protested, "But, Coach, the midterms are coming—"
He cut her off with a head shake, "Never said it was gonna be easy, Lauren" he said, reminding her, "Everything, I want everything. Your first contest is coming too."
She nodded, and, giving her another look, he left. "And here I am again, thinking I just needed to run..." she muttered herself, still lying on her back.
"Don't mind him," Clara's silky voice spoke somewhere above her head, "He just likes playing the hard guy."
She lifted her eyes upward, and saw Clara hovering above her at the head of Cadillac. "Well, he's very good at it," she said.
The blonde girl moved around in her usual slick dancer movements, and came to her side. She took her leg, and started raising it upward, then bent it at her knee. "Thomas is having a party tonight at his place," she said, pressing her knee toward her chest, "Wanna come, kiddo?"
Clara, who was a senior in the School of Arts, had an annoying habit of calling everyone else who wasn't a senior kiddo. She hated it. The only person she was a kiddo to had been always Mr. Tompkins, but the alluring blonde girl was one of those few people who was actually nice to her, so, she wasn't making a big deal of it. As Clara dropped her left leg, and held the other one, she shook her head. "Can't. My shift starts late today, and I need to write a paper on Hammurabi."
Clara shook her head. "Girl, if you keep going like this," she twisted her leg to left until her muscles started screaming again, "you're going to burn yourself out."
"A girl gotta eat," she grunted as her hand clutched the mat and Clara twisted the leg further.
There was a sudden pause as Clara dropped her leg, then her hand found hers. Her fingers left something in her palm. Her eyes finding Clara's, she gave the blonde girl a questioning look, then glanced down. A small pill. She looked at Clara again.
"Ritalin," Clara explained, "I take it when I perform on the stage in the club," she said. "Helps me get through the day. Be careful, though. Drink water. It takes one day until it clears out of the body."
Struggling for words, she shook her head. "I—I don't do drugs."
Clara smiled sweetly. "It's not drugs," she said, "just something to give us enough energy to live through Coach Matthews."
She laughed, shaking her head, and straightened up in a sitting position on the mat. Then she returned the pill to her. "Thank you," she said, "but I can't. It's too dangerous. I can't lose my scholarship."
Shrugging, Clara turned around, saying "Your loss," and went away.
She did the same. She took a quick shower, and headed to the library to find books on Hammurabi, and his rather unforgiving Law. Two hours later, she turned to her little place in the University Zone that she shared with two other students. Ron was silent and careful, an always mindful freshman in investment banking, and Marry, a friend of Clara, was a loud and obscene bitch. But it was originally her "place" so it was mostly her rules that passed in their little trio. Judging by the music from the left side of the house, it was clear Marry was preparing for the party tonight. Bypassing the open kitchen, she went directly to the living area, where behind the long folding screen was her "room". Quickly she got dressed in Cheesecake Factory's serving uniform, and left the house.
She entered the restaurant from the back door, and found her usual co-worker in her shift, Leslie, as she took her full tray from one of the bell boys. "Hi—"Leslie greeted her, trying to support the heavy tray on her palm, "Busy night. All tables are taken," she said, and added just before she left the kitchen, "Oh, and yours is here too."
"Mine?" she asked, tying the dark green apron over the dark blue skirt.
"That guy from your school," she answered through the door, "Tall with a good smile."
She groaned. She pushed the door open, and at a table near the windows, she saw him sitting alone, waiting for his order to be taken. Twice this week, and it wasn't even Friday yet. Her eyes darkened and she walked to his table purposefully. "What are you doing here, Adam?"
He lifted his head from the menu he was reading, and looked at her. "Currently?" he asked, "I'm waiting for a waitress take my order."
She tilted her head, and gave him a look. "Seriously, how old are you?"
"I'll just have my dinner, Lauren," he said in return, "Is there a problem?"
Her eyes traveled around the room. "You must hate this place."
"On the contrary, I like it enough," he said, then paused for a second, as his mouth turned down an inch, "not much, but quite enough." She looked at him again. "Look, if you don't feel comfortable serving me," he told her, a smile turning his mouth this time upward, "You could always ask your friend to tend my table."
Her lips pulled out in a sarcastic smile. "Have you decided, sir?" she asked in an imitation of a perfect waitress.
His attention shifted down at the menu. "No, not yet—" he answered, "Do you have any recommendation?"
"I'm afraid we don't have anything that has arsenic inside."
He laughed. "I'll have a lasagna then."
She nodded, scratching on her note pad, then turned to leave.
"Lauren," he called behind her, "Can I hope that you won't spit into my plate?"
She turned aside, and smirked at him. "No, you can't."
She took another two orders, and returned to the kitchen. She braced her hands on a table, and bowed her head, breathing deeply. God, she wished she could find a way to drive that son of a bitch out of her life completely. A hand rested on her shoulder. She craned her neck aside and saw Leslie looking at her. "Are you okay?" the other girl asked.
She nodded. "It's the man at the six?" Leslie asked, "I think he likes you, Lauren."
She twirled around, and fixed the girl a look. "God, are you blind?" she hissed, "He's not here because he likes me, Leslie," she spat, "he's here to mock me."
Leslie looked at her as if she had grown a new head. "But—but—he's—done nothing—"she said, "he's always so kind to everyone."
She sniffed, "Courteous isn't he?" she asked, "Leslie, wake up, he's not kind to any of you. He just mocks you, us... He thinks we're all beneath him just because he's born on the right side of the city."
Leslie still looked at her with that expression. "I think...you're exaggerating."
She walked closer to her, "I'm not exaggerating, you're just stu.." she halted at the last minute, "...ready to buy his shit."
"Because I'm not as smart as you?" Leslie asked, clearly understanding what she had almost called her. She didn't answer. Leslie looked at her again. "You know, you say he thinks we're all beneath him, but do you think you're different, Lauren?" she asked, "You also think we're all beneath you."
"Leslie—" she started, but the other girl didn't let her finish.
She pushed a French bread plate toward her over the table. "Your customer is waiting, Lauren," and with that, she left.
Throwing her head back, she let out a low grunt, and took the plate.
Leaving the kitchen, she walked to the table that had ordered the toast. She placed it in front of the overweight man who sat alone at his table, and turned with a "buon appetit", but his voice stopped her. "This is too much crunchy," he told her as she turned back. She looked at the half-brown toast, "I ordered a slightly crusted toast, but you brought me—" he shook his hand over the plate, "this."
Closing her eyes for a second, she let out a silent breath. Just great. Just fucking great. "I'll change it now, sir."
She picked up the plate, as the man gave her a look. "Don't give me the attitude, lady," he said the last mockingly, "your job is to bring me what I want in the exact way I want it."
"Yes, sir," she bit off, taking the plate, and deciding that she was really going to spit on his toast. "I mean," the man went on, "How difficult could it be to bring a toast in the way I wanted...it's not that serving a customer is the hardest job in the world...See, very simple, a slightly crusted, not crunched toast, very easy...c.r.u.s.t.e.d—" he spelled the word, as she looked at him motionlessly, her hand still up in the air, "Can you think you can manage to do it at least this time?"
She thought it was safe to say that she lost it at that moment. The strain had just too much stretched, and she snapped. The plate dropped from her hand, over his head.
"You stupid bitch—" he started, standing up, but she didn't let him, with a kick she pushed him down.
Her eyes seeing red, blood ringing in her ear, she sat on his swollen belly, taking the pieces of the toast from the floor. "I don't know," she said, "Let's see if I did manage to understand, your mightiness," she spat, and stuffed a piece in his mouth with each letter, "C.R.U.S.T.E.D— CRUSTED!" She cried, "CRUSTED!"
When they pulled her off of him, she lifted her head, but even in the all turmoil around her all she could see was him, leaned up against the window at his table, watching the whole scene with a laughing smirk in the same pose, his legs slightly aside, his hands shoved into his pockets, impeccably everything she had ever hated and ever wanted from the first time she had known herself.
The next morning, the day started like how the days started in these days. In the first hour she came to 8th precinct, her phone buzzed. Throwing a glance at Carter who sat at the desk at the opposite side, she took it out. Carter's eyes followed her motions. She gave her a little smile. "It's my boyfriend," she explained, smiling, "Can't do without hearing from me every hour," she said, laughing, and opened the line.
"Missed me again, honey?" she asked.
There was a pause over the line at first, then his voice said, as blunt as ever, "42nd Street, Bryant Park entrance," he ordered, "I'm waiting."
She closed the phone with another endearment, and stood up. Carter's eyebrows rose. "Need to check my crime scene," she explained, even though she didn't need to. "Detective," she tipped her head at the older woman.
"Detective," Carter tipped her head back at her.
On the way to the park, she took a sandwich, for the sake of appearances. She sat on a table at the left side of the park, away from the cluster of the great lawn where there were still a couple of people that tried to benefit from the last remnants of the fall sun in the noon.
A few minutes later, he sat on the folded chair at the opposite side of her. He looked at her. Taking a bite from her sandwich, she smiled at him. "Is there anything?" she asked, munching.
Over the garbage of her sandwich packages, he handed her a plastic bag that had a shell from a bullet inside. "Ballistics," he only said.
She nodded, taking another bite, not even bothering to ask where he had found the slug. "Anything else?" she asked instead.
"Sniff around a bit to see if there have been any ransom kidnappings reported," he answered with another order, "White guys with crew cuts, one with long hair."
She gulped over her morsel, as her eyebrow rose. "What are they?" she asked.
He threw her a look. "Kidnappers, Lauren."
Putting the rest of her sandwich on the table, she shook her head. "Kidnapping is big news," she said, "I'd have heard something."
"What about Amber alerts?" he asked in returned.
"Child abduction?" she asked back, straightening in her seat, "Is that what we're dealing with this time?"
He raised his eyebrow, looking at her. "We?" he asked, "When did you become so enthusiastic?"
She held his stare. "Must have gotten up from the right side of the bed," she stated. He looked at her again. "You are aware that I'm still a cop, right?" She leaned forward on the table, "If you are dealing with a gang who abducts children, you know it will be messy. You might need help."
His eyes sized her up and down, as if weighing what she had said. She knew he knew what she had said was right. And he knew she knew. Besides, despite some other stuff she had done, she was a good cop, and he knew that, too. He had chosen her. He stood up. "I have a tip. An address in Brooklyn," he said, walking away. "Let's go."
She followed him to her car. The drive to Brooklyn was in silence, like it usually was between them. In the silence she tried to fix the pieces together but nothing came up aside from the judge he had been following yesterday. So she asked, "Is this related to that judge?"
For a second he didn't talk. The silence made the inside of the car more tense, if that were possible then he flatly nodded. She wondered how they must have looked to an outside observer. They could talk about deadly threats and her failed attempts for his untimely demise between smirks and sarcastic remarks, as long as it related to them, but when it was someone else, his words were guarded better than Fort Knox.
For a moment, she understood why he didn't quite believe her when she had offered help, willingly. "Yes," he continued in his authentic rasped whisper, "Someone abducted his son."
Asking how he would have known this was useless. She knew the answer would mostly be something like "We had a tip." So she asked the most important question in an abduction case, "Why?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out Lauren," he answered.
"Haven't they made a contact yet?" she inquired further. He had been following the judge since yesterday, she didn't know when the child had been abducted but it was a good guess that it had happened some time yesterday.
Her eyes shifted toward him as he gave her a head shake. She looked for a sign of a fight in his face, but unlike the other times, free of any bruises or cuts, his face was quite intact. "Once, but they didn't clarify it," he answered, as she made a sudden brake when the car in front of her made a sudden brake as well.
They leaned forward with the impact and with the corner of her eyes she caught Reese wincing, clutching his left shoulder. Her eyes narrowed. "Did something happen to your shoulder?" she asked.
He gave her a look, one of those hardest he only reserved for when he was seriously pissed, but didn't reply. She didn't press further, either. They crossed the Brooklyn Bridge in its all massive metal glory in the familiar silence. Somewhere out there was a child there who had been abducted from the safety of his home, and thrown into a world he couldn't understand; frightened, and alone, and perhaps also in pain. Her hands tightened around the wheel, as Bran's face appeared in her mind like a flash in the darkness. She tried to imagine how she would feel if someone hurt Bran, and her mind went blank as her nails almost drew blood from her palms. She threw a side glance at Reese, and asked, "How old is he?"
He kept looking ahead, but still answered, with a voice as sharp as the heels and nails she had used to wear, "Nine."
Her hands tightened around the wheel further, but she didn't say anything back. There was nothing else to say. He was going to find that little man, and when he did, whoever had abducted him had better look for another planet to hide in, because he was going to do very bad things to them. Very, very bad things.
Suddenly she remembered Benton, and how Reese had looked when he had handed the sick bastard to the Cartel, and their conversation in the park, the conversation they had both decided on an unspoken deal as if it hadn't happened.
Do you think people can change, Lauren?
Her eyes shifted toward him again then back to the road. Perhaps, Adam had been right; people didn't change, whatever you do, you always return to where you belong.
Her face settling in, she stepped on the gas.
Waiting in the alcove next to the address Reese had been provided, she watched the man as he walked from the other side of the street. "White guy with a crew cut," she said, her eyes sliding toward him.
He nodded, his face squared, "I saw him before," he told her, before the man stepped into the mid-rise walk-up apartment.
As soon as their person of interest lost behind the door, Reese moved. She followed. Bypassing the front door, he walked around the block, and found the fire escape of the apartment. "Back door?" she asked.
"They're dangerous," he said, reaching out for the ladder that was above their heads, "We'll set up a trap."
She put her hand on his upper arm, and smirked at him. "Give me a hand," she said, positioning herself under the ladder.
This time there was no raised eyebrow or smirk for a response; he only laced his hands together. Holding his shoulder, she stepped on his open palm. He threw her up, creating the momentum for her to catch the fire ladder. She clutched the third step's bar, tightened her hands then pulled herself up. She climbed the rest of the way up to the landing then kicked the ladder back to him. A few seconds later, he appeared. They moved up to the floor where crew cut guy lived, then Reese opened the metal door for the floor above. Inside the apartment, they descended to the kidnapper's level.
Despite their having taken the long route, the guy still hadn't arrived but she could already hear his footsteps as he approached the house. Pushing her backward, Reese pointed to the slight corner at the hall, and she slipped in there, as he stationed himself at the opposite corner, in waiting.
The man appeared at the next second, turning already to right, his head bowed as he tried to pick out the key to the house from a heavy key ring. Not wasting any time, despite his bulking body mass, Reese moved away from his post as silent as a tiger, and clutched the guy from his shoulder blades.
Surprised, the man tried to turn around, and using the momentum, Reese threw him around toward her corner. Shaking on his legs, the man found his balance as soon as the act completed, his hand quickly drawing a pocketknife. Moving away from the corner, Lauren lifted her leg up in the air in a way even Coach Matthews would have been impressed and kicked the guy's hand. Taken by surprise, the blade dropped from his hand, as Reese punched his face.
The impact of his blow threw the guy backward, but he quickly collected himself, and charged at Reese, directly at his left shoulder. He held Reese at the shoulder, his nails pushing as Reese let out a grunt of pain. With the corner of her eyes, she saw the blood stain over the dark shirt he was wearing.
A curse on the tip of her tongue, she quickly moved around them, and coiled her right arm around the man's neck. The moment created the window of opportunity she was seeking. Reese twisted the guy's fingers on his shoulder as she tightened her arm, pulling him back.
In counterattack, the man threw his head back. When his head hit her forehead, for a moment all world went black, her legs shook as she lost her sure footing, then the next moment he turned aside, grabbed her at her side, and threw her above his shoulder, toward the staircase.
As she back flipped in the air above the stairwell, her hands already stretched out, she heard a Lauren from Reese as he moved toward her, throwing the guy away in his rush to catch before she fell seven levels down through the stairwell, but it wasn't needed. Like many times before she had done on the stage, her stretched out hands clutched the railings before it was too late, and using the momentum she spun herself back to the staircase and landed in a crouch at the last step.
She lifted her head up and found his eyes. A faint smirk played around his mouth, before he returned to the guy, and charged again. This time, the guy had no chance against Reese, who had been become very –heated at the moment. He blocked the guy's attacks in two simplistic but deadly moves, breaking his wrist with a third one that she recognized from Krav Maga defense classes. Then he threw the guy down at the staircase, already unconscious.
She leaned against the wall, her breath labored, her right side where the man had hit her burning in pain. Reese turned aside, and looked at her. "Are you okay?"
Her eyes found his left shoulder. "I could ask the same," she whispered, as she pulled his shirt aside to reveal a wound bleeding under the padding. "What happened here?"
"His friend missed this morning," he said, moving to the staircase. She neared toward him, too, looking downward at the man who was sprawled over the steps.
They climbed down to him. Crouching over him, he went through his pockets, and pulled out his wallet. He opened his shirt before he went through his stuff. All over his chest, she saw a big bird-like tattoo. She lifted her eyes up to Reese. "What's this?"
He didn't answer first, only pulled out an ID from the wallet. "Turski," he read, "Leon Josef, with an F," he said then concluded. "Szajka Pruszkeiw Dziewiec: SP-9."
She looked at him as if he had talked in another language, which basically was true. "What does it mean?" she asked.
"It's a nasty street gang from Eastern Europe," he answered.
Her eyebrow rose. "I didn't know we have a nasty street gang from Eastern Europe," she commented, her eyes fixed at him, "How do you know them?"
"They usually trade with the Pashtun Warlords," he said, though not quite answering her question. She wasn't surprised, either. "Guns for heroin," he continued, "They also run kidnappings in Warsaw." He looked at her, "Looks like they just opened up a new branch in New York, Detective."
"Joy," she shot back, standing up. "What are we doing with him?"
"Let's put him in your truck," he answered, taking the guy from the ground. She almost rolled her eyes. "I'll leave him in a safe house, then will question him later."
"Why not now?" she asked, as they stepped down, the man between them, supported by Reese, "Do you have better plans?"
He gave her a look. "I need to check on Judge."
She nodded. "I can take this guy in to custody."
He declined, shaking his head, "No, we can't involve police."
"You mean besides me?"
"You're more an independent asset," he shot back.
She laughed, as they fit him inside her trunk. The night had almost fallen. The act didn't cause them many problems, aside from a couple of quick stares, but people around here had already learned minding their own business. Curiosity might not kill the cat, but it'd cause some certain problems.
Half an hour later, they dropped the guy in an empty warehouse in the Bronx. She had made sure to memorize the address but she was already sure any investigation would end up in a dead end.
Outside, the warehouse, he nodded. "Go home, Lauren," he then told her, "I'll call if I need your further assistance."
Her jaw setting up for a fight, she shook her head. "I'm coming with you."
Without a word, he turned and started walking away. She rushed to him, and taking a step in front of him, blocked his way. "If you don't take me with you," she said with a sober tone, "I'll open a case myself." He looked at her sternly, but she didn't back down. "It'd take me an hour or so to find the judge."
Holding her eyes, he walked to her. "Lauren, are you threatening me?"
She shook her head, and corrected, "I'm asking you to let me do my job."
"And since when have you become this interested in doing your job?"
"Since there is a missing kid whose chances are dropping every second we bitch at each other."
He gave her another look. "If this goes south because of something you do, Lauren, and that little boy gets hurt—"
She cut off his threat, "Yes, yes, yes, you will make me very sorry," she walked toward her car, "Let's go."
Half an hour later, they arrived at the judge's house. Before they stepped out the car, he gave her a look. "Don't tell him you're a cop," he warned, "The kidnappers said no cops. It would make him uneasy." She nodded. With his left hand, he opened the door, and for a split second winced again. His face soured, with something very akin to pain, but being the alpha man he was, nothing came out of him. Her eyes moved toward his shoulder and she saw that the blood over his shirt had become heavier. Getting out of the car, she went to the trunk and took the first-aid kit he had become accustomed to.
He gave her a look but didn't comment. They walked to the door. The judge she had seen earlier in the Courthouse opened the door, but the man certainly wasn't the same man she had seen yesterday. The man looked like he had aged a hundred years overnight. After giving her a suspicious look, he turned to Reese.
"Who is she?" the judge asked.
"She's—my independent asset," he answered, then made a move to get inside, "She's okay."
She gave the man a half faint smile she hoped that came across as trustworthy, and followed him inside too.
Sitting on a chair along the dining table in the living room, Reese looked at the judge. "We found a trail, but I need to ask you a few questions."
The Judge nodded, but she interrupted before he could continue. She set the first-aid kid on the table. "You need to tend this first," she said, as he looked at her, "you don't want to bleed over here, do you?" she asked.
The Judge looked at him, as well then his gaze grew heavier. "She's right," he said, "You're bleeding. What happened?"
He shook his head. "It's okay. An old scar opened," he pulled the first-aid kit toward himself, opening his shirt, "Judge, can you get me a mirror?"
The man gave them a look then left the room as Reese took off his shirt. Shifting aside, she turned her eyes away from his bare chest, and looked around. The Judge returned a few minutes later and handed Reese the mirror. Positioning himself over it, he took off his bloodied bandages with difficulty. The Judge's eyes traveled between them again, giving them unreadable looks. Letting a sigh out, she twisted aside again, and walked to Reese.
His eyebrows pulled into a frown as she pulled up a chair in front of him and sat down. Her hand reached out to his shoulder, and moved his away. Giving her a look, he gripped her fingers. "Don't make a fuss," she told him under her breath, her eyes lifting up toward his, "He's giving us those looks."
He looked at her at first as if he hadn't understood, then his eyes shifted toward the judge, then he got it. Inclining his head slightly, he let her.
Leaning toward him, she trained her eyes on the wound, as her fingers poked gently over his shoulder. The muscles under her fingertips throbbed as he let out a hiss over her face. She lifted her eyes upward, "This is gonna hurt."
A wave of a powerful strain emitting from his broad chest, he nodded stiffly. Lowering her eyes again, she ripped off the bandage. His head dropping ahead, he rasped, and she saw the open wound. She gulped. A few centimeters away and his shoulder would have had a very serious problem. "You were lucky," she said, carefully cleaning the wound.
"He had a bad aim," he said back.
"Again, you were lucky."
A ghost of a smile touched on his lips, before he shifted his attention toward the judge."Judge," he called, "About Christina—" he started.
"What about Christina?" the man asked, "What happened?" he asked again, "Don't tell me she's involved too."
Her eyes shifted toward the man as her hands went on probe Reese's shoulder. "No," he said, "no she isn't."
"Then what's the problem?" the other man asked.
"She's dead," Reese answered. Her hand hesitating, she looked at him, then at the judge who was looking like someone had just shot him at his chest. She leaned forward. "Did you really need to tell the news like that?" she whispered.
The judge dropped on the couch. "Oh my god," he muttered, "oh my god..." he chanted, "oh my god..."
She made a move toward him, but before she could say anything, the doorbell chimed. They first shared a look, their faces inches apart, then Reese stood up, and walked to the door. He spied the intruders through the looking glass as she walked to him. "Police," he whispered, walking back to the room, and put his shirt on. He walked to the judge. "Open the door," he said, "they're probably here because of Christina," he said, and instructed the stunned man, "Act like it's the first time you heard it, and said you didn't notice anything."
He buttoned up his shirt, sticking a clean padding over the wound as the judge sent the police away. The man returned with the same stunned expression. "Christina was, uh. She was, uh, with us the night that Elizabeth died," the man said, walking toward the table. He closed his eyes. "She was so good with Sam. She was just a kid," he said, "and they killed her in cold blood."
She walked toward the man. "Hey, he's alive, okay, he's alive," she told him in a soft tone she hoped sounded more reassuring than she was feeling, "as long as they need him, they can't hurt him."
The judge didn't appear to feel reassured at her words. "You don't know that," he said.
Reese stepped in front of him, his whole posture emitting that reassurance she had so flatly failed at it. "We know," he told the other man in a definite tone, "They need something from you, Judge, and we need to find out what it is. But I need your help." He walked closer to the man. "Have you ever heard of Szajka Pruszkeiw Dziewiec, SP-9?"
The stunned expression left its place to suspicion as the man's eyes narrowed, then he shook his head. "What are you," he asked, "ex-cop? FBI?"
Her attention shifted to Reese, but nothing could be read from his expression. "I have experience in situations like this," he told the other man, "That's all you need to know."
The judge though this time didn't buy it. "Yeah?" the man almost taunted, "Well, maybe you're not enough. Maybe I should call those officers back and tell them the truth."
Reese took another step toward the judge. "I know how to be invisible, the police and FBI don't." He paused, and fixed his eyes at the man. "But I'm going after your son, regardless," he informed, and she knew he was telling the truth. Whatever decision the judge would make, it wouldn't hinder Reese. He was going to find that child, or die while he tried. For a moment, the sudden truth left her breathless, her situation becoming even more palpable. She had gotten herself strictly tied to a man who didn't have simply a hero complex, but a hero complex and a death wish together at once.
She didn't know how much of it the judge had understood from the expression of his face, but she knew he understood enough. So did Reese. "Now," he said again, "have you ever heard of a gang called SP-9?"
"No," the judge answered, "Who are they?"
The landline chose to squall at that moment. Their attention shifted there. "That's them now," Reese said, walking toward it.
He opened the phone, and put the speakers on as he answered. Standing next to Reese, she listened to the conversation as the kidnappers demanded the judge to throw the case away regarding Angela Markham.
After he closed the phone, Reese immediately asked, "Who is Angela Markham?"
The judge looked confused. "She mowed down some guy in a parking garage," he answered, "It's a simple hit and run."
Taking his jacket from the chair, he caught her elbow, and steered her toward the door. "Well, now she's become the key to finding your son," he told the judge, before he opened the door, and pushed her out. "I'll be in contact, don't tell anyone waiting, and wait for my call," he said, and stepped outside next to her on the porch.
"Go back to your precinct," he ordered her, "look for the nanny's murder."
"What are you going to do?" she asked.
"I'm going to talk to our friend in the warehouse, and learn about their connection to Angela Markham."
"I can—" she started, but he cut her off.
"No, I want you working on the nanny, and ballistics of the slugs I've given you today," he said, with a voice didn't leave any room for—negotiations. She nodded. He started climbing down the steps, "I'll call you."
"What if I found something—something important before you called me," she said behind his back, "and I can't reach you—" He turned to her, "—because you change your number more than an ex-husband."
He looked at her again with that stare; hawkish crystal eyes fixed on hers keenly then held out his hand. "Give me your phone," he ordered.
She dropped it on his open palm. He pressed a few places on the screen touch then handed the device back to her. "Call me if you find something," he amended before he started walking away.
For a second, she stared at his retreating back, and her eyes lowered toward her phone, where his number was entered under the label "the man in the suit".
A small smile forming on her lips, she walked to her car to drive to the 8th precinct. Yesterday had been a long day, and today was going to be even longer.
I'd laughed a lot when John gave his number to Lionel in the show, and couldn't help but do it also here, especially the part with "the man in the suit." :D
I will complete the episode as soon as persevera sends me back the last chapter. Until then, take care.