The Other Side
By LMR
Disclaimer: Why are you reading this disclaimer? For that matter, why are you reading this story? You should be reading Harry Potter!
A.N.: Thanks to Claire (guitar73girl), who reads this ridiculous thing and never complains, and surprisingly, never rolls her eyes. Or maybe she does. There's this pesky little Atlantic Ocean thing blocking my view of her. But at least she never lets on. Thank you, Claire.
A.N. 2: Sorry for the delay. Just moved.
Chapter 10: Blind
xXx
Home of Jason and Cece Jackson - 1:10 p.m. Doink, doink
"Hi, Mrs. Jackson?" Goren showed his badge after getting a nod. "I'm Detective Goren, this is my partner Detective Eames. I was hoping we could talk to your husband?"
She looked at them suspiciously, leaning in the doorframe. "Is he in trouble?"
"That's what we want to find out. We're investigating the murder of one of his clients," Eames said, studying her face for a reaction.
Now she just looked confused. "Um, well, my husband is at the golf course right now, and he won't be back un-"
Goren maneuvered his way past the front door into the fancy entryway, making an offhand comment about the lovely drapery. He was inside before she could do anything but gasp at his audacity. Eames smiled sweetly. "May we come in?" She took Cece's gaping as a 'yes.' "We wanted to talk to you as well, actually." She was hoping the stress on the word would get her disconcerted.
Just more confusion. "Well, um. I don't know how I could help you." She stood between them and the living room as if to keep them out. Foolish mortal.
"Do you know any of your husband's clients, Mrs. Jackson?" Eames stared down at her from nearly a foot lower.
"No. That would be inappropriate."
"So tell me," Eames went on with the most obnoxious tone she could muster, joining her partner in the living room. "Is 'inappropriate' what your husband calls it when he sleeps with his clients?"
"Jason would never," Mrs. Jackson stressed. Eames glanced at her partner and gave a skeptical look. She knows he is. She gripped the back of a nice dining chair across from them before finally lowering herself to sit in it. "If you're referring to the accusations against him, they were all lies. They were mentally disturbed criminals, for Goodness' sake. They resented him because they associated him with their institutionalization." Eames raised an eyebrow at Goren. Gee, that explanation didn't come right out of the doctor's mouth verbatim
"Now unless you have some kind of warrant, I think you should get out of here."
But Goren had already made himself comfy on the plush living room sofa, and Eames followed suit.
Hm. The drapes are pretty nice. Eames shook all thoughts of the décor, and got back to annoying Cece. "Do you recognize this, um, outfit, Mrs. Jackson?" She showed her a picture of the lacy pink thing, sliding it across the coffee table to her.
"No," she said, doing her best to sound very bored, trying not to pay attention.
"Too bad, 'cause your husband sure does. We found his DNA all over it." She let this sink in. "Any guesses where we found it?" Her only response was a patronizing look with what looked to the detectives like an undercurrent of worry. "It was in the closet of a client of his. The client who was found murdered on the street this morning. Where was your husband this morning?" she asked as though the question had just now occurred to her.
"I told you, the golf course, he's been there all morning." Eames looked at Goren and nodded slightly. He agreed. Score one for her: She didn't think we were talking about three a.m.
"How about before that? Earlier?"
"How early?"
"Still dark," was all Eames gave her.
"We were both asleep until 5:30, he was here until... ten, I showered, made some breakfast and then just about an hour ago I took my daughter over to her friend's house. Now," she started to rise, obviously ushering them to the exit. "My husband won't be home until late tonight."
"Where will he be?" Goren wondered, standing, but staying right in front of the sofa opposite the front door, not budging.
"He's going right from the course to his office hours, and from there to a convention he has to hit. He'll get home late. Now-"
"What about last night?" Eames wondered, finally standing.
"He was here all night," Cece said impatiently.
"Do you have somewhere to go, because I notice you're pushing us to the door," Goren said, calling upon his keenest observational skills.
"Well, I only do snack runs for the kids' game the first week of the month," she babbled. "But believe me, I wish it were this week, because I'd really like have a good reason to kick you out right now." She folded her arms across her chest.
"Oh, I'm sure we would fit in the car," Eames countered jovially, not missing a beat. "We don't take up much room." She could see Goren desperately trying to hide his face at that one. Note to self: Stop making Bobby laugh in front of witnesses.
"Will you be going with him to the convention?" Goren asked conversationally.
"No, spouses aren't invi-" It suddenly seemed to occur to Cece how ridiculous it was for her to be telling them something so trivial when she was trying so desperately to get them out of her home. Flustered, she changed the topic. "Just get out of here. You can talk to him at his office. He'll tell you, he was right here."
Eames noticed a framed photo of the family on the table next to the sofa. Oh, goody, time for picture poking.
Sure enough, Goren reached for the photo. "Oh, that's your daughter? Nice picture."
"Yes, that's Winona. Please go now."
"Oh, she's so cute!" Eames gushed, not budging. "You know, my partner is great with kids. He has this way of getting them to open up; it's so sweet. They always love talking to him. You know, we could just wait a little while, in case your husband decides to stop back here before he heads to the office."
"Okay, okay." She snatched the picture back. "He didn't come home last night. I don't know where he was, okay? Happy? Now just, please, get out of here before my daughter comes home." She resumed herding them to the door.
xXx
"I know that look," Eames said on their way to the SUV. "That's not a woman who's trying to give her husband an alibi, that's a wife who's determined to wear blinders about what her husband's doing: She's telling us what she wants to believe herself."
"If Jackson did do it," Goren speculated. "She doesn't think he did. If she did, she wouldn't have given in so easily; she would have tried harder. Her lying wasn't about the murder at all."
"If it had been, though, it would have given her an alibi, too, you know," Eames pointed out. "Her husband would back her up, and if she did know about Persephone, I don't imagine she'd have liked her too much. If that kid goes to bed about eight, probably. Looks like we've got another suspect and still no alibis." She frowned, settling into her seat. "Spouses aren't invited. That makes no sense." She raised an eyebrow. "Whatcha' want to bet it's only his spouse that's not invited?"
"He wants women that feel they owe him something," Goren surmised, nodding. "His date's likely to be another client. Think that might convince Carver to let us bring him in for questioning?" he asked, with little hope.
Eames actually snorted as she buckled up. "Yeah, because Carver is just the biggest fan of our technique." She paused thoughtfully. "We might be able to bring him in on an abuse of power charge. Jackson, I mean, not Carver." She shook the admittedly pleasant thought of dragging Carver into the interrogation room. "What he's doing with these clients is unethical and illegal." Goren was giving her a dubious look. "Oh, come on, we've brought people in for illegal parking, Bobby. We have to try."
"If I said this case was giving me a splitting headache..." Goren wondered, tentative.
"...I'd say keep trying because that one really sucked," she informed him judiciously. "Deal with it, Bobby, I'm the funny one."
He pouted all the way to Carver's office.
xXx
Office of ADA Ron Carver - Approximately five yards away from the elevator - 2:17 and 13 seconds p.m. Doink, Doink.
"It's not enough, Detectives," Carver told them sternly. "I'm inclined to agree, but the DNA on the clothes isn't enough to pin the murder on him."
"She was blackmailing him," Eames insisted. "His family, his career, maybe even his freedom, all on the line, and he blamed her. We know he'd had affairs with clients before."
"We know there's been speculation that he'd been inappropriate with clients," Carver corrected her. "There's a difference." Eames's jaw set.
"What would you need for probable cause?" Goren asked, taking his curious, challenging stance, arms folded across his chest.
"An admission of an affair," he conceded. "I would go for an admission in a casual setting. Some indicator of a tangible history of indiscretion. Then you might have enough to hold him."
Eames nodded thoughtfully. "Well, we haven't confronted him yet," she offered. "But if we do try to approach him outright, I don't think even your nifty little 'cough twice' thing will get him." Goren chuckled. "Too bad, I liked that thing." They both knew what option was left. "Just for once, what if I'm the sleazebag and you're the bimbo?" she proposed.
"No, you can't pull off sleazebag." He winced, instantly knowing that this hadn't come off as quite the compliment he'd intended, knowledge which, judging by the smirk on her face, seemed to amuse Eames to no end.
"We have a psychiatrists' convention to hit," she said simply, pretending to ignore the slip. She handed over the keys. "Sleazebags drive their bimbos," she pointed out.
"That chain include the keys to the doghouse?" he wondered under his breath.
xXx
A.N.: Okay, technically, I know they have more than enough to bring in the doc. But my way is more fun; trust me.