Out of all the trials and tribulations that Don Cragen has encountered during his tenure as captain of the Special Victims Unit, he is fairly certain that Elliot and Olivia have caused him the most stress and aggravation out of the entire bunch, and to take that crown requires quite a bit of talent seeing as he has a whole squad floor with a large number of bodies in order to base this analysis. Elliot is like a pit bull, transforming at one moment from a lovelorn sap willing to do anything to protect those that need him, to an obnoxious beast storming the place and bulldozing whichever poor fool that happens to be in his way—this usually ends up being his partner.
Olivia is the calmer version of Elliot, with a quicker sense of self-control and compassion, but harboring just as much tenacity and always willing to spar with him.
Despite the typical headache that Don gets every time something goes awry and an inevitable phone call from the higher-ups is in order, the two have proven their grit many times over, and are undeniably excellent detectives. This is primarily why he refuses to split them apart, even when such an action has been requested. No matter how many times he's had to have a sit down with a table full of suits, he knows their abilities as investigators. Their dedication to the job and to each other is valiant, and he cannot help but feel a strange, parent-like concern for the two. He feels the same way about Fin and Munch, and whenever one of the officers in his close-knit squad gets into trouble, he tends to take it personally.
The feelings of desperation and dread come to no surprise after discovering that Elliot and Olivia have gone missing. They have been involved in countless scrapes before—Olivia has blurred the boundaries of law for the sake of people she hardly knows, and Elliot has put his ass on the line on many occasions for what he believes is right, often ending up nearly out of a job or confined to permanent desk duty—but something feels different about this go around. Don isn't sure why this time he is so genuinely worried about his detectives. Maybe it is the look of dismay in Fin's eyes, or the washed out, grim expression that has settled into Munch's normally passive face.
Don pulls up to the Mott Haven parole and probation office off of Bruckner Boulevard and parks in the building's garage with an abrupt screech of the tires. He doesn't even bother to lock the doors of the sedan and instead rushes off to the entryway of an elevator. The thing smells like air fermented by car exhaust, old piss, and poor ventilation, but he gives it only minute, subconscious reflection as he thumbs the '3' button after noticing that the parole and probation floor is on the third level. Before long, he is exiting the metal car and walking briskly down the hallway marked with arrows which lead him to the main desk. A woman immediately looks up, seeming suspicious and alarmed, that is, until he flashes his badge at her.
The people waiting to be seen around the room appear to blanch and squirm a bit at the presence of brass, but he pays them no mind.
"Can I help you, sir?" the woman asks, staring at him with wide brown eyes.
He shoves his badge back into his chest pocket. "My name is Donald Cragen. I'm the captain of the Manhattan Special Victims Unit. I need to speak with Kendra Flynn right away."
The woman noticeably pauses. "Uh, Ms. Flynn is with a client at the moment. You can either wait or I can take a message—"
He shakes his head. "No. I need to speak with her now. I can't express enough how urgent of a situation this is."
Perhaps she realizes that he will not go away unless he gets what he wants by the steely determination in his gaze. She stands, pushing her squat body away from her computer desk. "One moment," she mutters, then strolls out of sight.
Don shoves his hands into his pockets and begins to wear an anxious path into the thin carpet. His patience is diminishing considerably when his cell phone rings. He scrambles to fish the gadget out of his coat, glares at the screen of the small device, and notices that the caller is Fin.
"Yeah," he says, hoping for a break. Anything.
The other man is competing with the surrounding noise in the background, obviously in a car. "I got all airports on high alert, and everyone is keeping their eyes out for anyone fitting Elliot and Olivia's descriptions, but so far airport security and port authority ain't seen nothin'."
"Any sign of the limo?" Don asks, running a clammy palm over the back of his head.
"Only about half a dozen of the exact same make and model that Wilson gave us."
"Did we have anything on a plate or vin? Are there any vehicles listed with the club as owner?"
"Nah, that'd be too easy. I ran a reg' on the entire Wilson family—unfortunately nobody has owned a car since 1984. So far we ain't been able to give a better description than a white limo with tinted windows. But we got people searching every parking lot and every drop off zone at every single airport in the area. They ain't flyin' anywhere without us knowin', Cap."
Don sighs, feeling briefly overwhelmed. "Where are you?"
"Driving west on the Brooklyn-Queens expressway. You need us to meet with you?"
The door leading to the offices opens, catching his attention. "Why don't you and Munch speak with Carl Wilson—pump him for more information. Even if he won't budge on their location, if you drill him hard enough, he'll cough up a license plate. But I've got to go. Call me if anything changes."
"Will do, Cap."
At the threshold of the entrance is another woman, appearing younger and more preened than the first, who is peeking her head around the metal detector and smiling in a tight, yet cordial manner. The frigidness in her demeanor is palpable.
"Captain?" she asks, and then motions for him to follow her. "Cragen, was it?"
Don shakes her hand stiffly. "Don Cragen, Manhattan SVU." He steps through the secured entrance, and a beeping alarm sounds. He lifts his jacket to reveal his holstered weapon, but she waves it off and the two continue to her cubicle.
"So, what brings the sex police to my office?" she inquires and takes a seat behind a desk with a mountain of paperwork stacked haphazardly.
He chooses to remain standing, even when she pulls out the plastic chair next to her desk which is usually designated for parolees. "Carl Wilson."
Kendra Flynn, who is busying herself with a well-used manila folder, freezes in shock, briefly at a loss for words. "What—" she begins, narrowing her eyes, then shakes her head with a jolt. "What about him?"
"I need to know everything about him. His family, his priors, his stint in prison, and all of his parole records."
Her mouth hangs open before responding. "Is he being investigated for a sex crime?"
Don folds his arms over his chest. "No, but were you aware of what he was doing with his spare time?"
"I am very careful with how I monitor my clients, Captain. I can assure you that Mr. Wilson is an excellent parolee and follows the conditions he was given by the judge down to a 't'."
"So you don't have any idea what he has been doing for the past year."
"I keep into weekly contact with him, so I like to think I know his business, sir."
Don presses his fingers into the palms of his hands in frustration. "Did you realize that he has been conspiring with an international fugitive and is being charged as an accomplice in the disappearance of two detectives?"
He expects the woman to act completely thrown, but instead she stares at her computer keyboard, visibly tense. This sparks his interest instantly, because either she is going to try to cover her ass or she is going to spill on something. And she had better, considering that she has been letting her client on post-prison supervision run around practically unregulated.
She finally meets his eyes. "I don't believe it," she says with quiet resolve. The protectiveness that she displays reminds him of his own willful refusal when concerns are raised about his underlings. "I haven't noticed anything out of the ordinary."
"Well, excuse me Ms. Flynn, but I find that very hard to believe."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He takes a deep breath. "What I mean is either you are a lousy parole officer or you're intentionally ignoring the fact that Mr. Wilson has been actively taking part in a drug smuggling and distribution ring with a well-known fugitive—maybe you've heard of him? Paul McKinney? One of the FBI's top ten most wanted criminals—you're client admits to having pretty regular business with him and has managed to drag his seventeen-year-old brother into the mix. Not to mention the man works in a strip club surrounded by drugs and alcohol, so he'd likely piss dirty if you bothered to do your work properly. Now tell me, are you intentionally ignoring this behavior, or are you just that sloppy?"
"I don't appreciate your insinuation, Captain. I am a dedicated parole officer. I have been working in this department for almost ten years. I don't give my clients any kind of leniency."
"What the hell do you have to say about my missing detectives, then? Wilson admitted to taking part in their disappearance, but you seem to have your head too far up your ass to even notice!" Don can feel his ire burning, and the anger makes him feel good. He is finally able to direct the frustration he is feeling towards someone other than himself. "If my detectives wind up dead because of your negligence, you can bet on more than just a formal investigation. You can expect to see what it's like to be on the other side of a jail cell."
Kendra Flynn's lips quiver, and he almost feels bad for laying it on her pretty harshly, but the bristles have yet to die down. "I don't know what to tell you."
"Tell me why Carl Wilson has been allowed to run amok like he has!" Her silence only douses that burning fury with more fuel. "You can either tell me right now, or I can have this entire office, namely your computer and files, after I get a warrant."
She brushes dark red hair away from her forehead. "Please," she says, feeling the eyes of her colleagues. "If I tell you everything, will you please keep me out of jail? I have two kids."
"I will talk with the DA in your favor if you give me what I want, but I can't promise you anything."
Kendra hides her eyes in her hands after resting her elbows on the desk. "I know he's been dealing drugs, and I know about McKinney. They've been working together for about a year and a half off and on."
Don scoffs at the absurdity of her confession. "Why would you let this go on at the risk of losing your job?"
"I—I got involved with Carl a couple months after he got out of prison. He was clean for a long time, and doing everything right, I swear! And then he ran into McKinney one night in a Brazilian club. He wanted to start a major operation of bringing South American drugs to New York and get rich selling it to the trust fund kids he was always running into at the Gentleman's Club." She begins to emotionally break down, allowing tears to escape. "I gave Carl the money and access to help bring McKinney over the Mexican border, then…they would pay me to keep quiet."
He stares at her hard, exasperated. "Why? Why would you sacrifice it all for a couple of criminals?"
She removes her hands from her face and they are wet. "Because I'm an idiot! I fell in love with him—I just didn't think he would get right back into trouble! I didn't expect for it to be anything more than a physical relationship but he knew I was violating the PREA act by sleeping with him and he used it against me. At first he threatened to turn me in if I said anything. Then the money started coming in and…well, I don't make as much as I would like working here, so I just shut up about it. And, I didn't want to see him locked up again. My children adore him and it may seem strange, but I really do love him!" She allows herself to sob openly, despite the astonished looks of the other men and women in the office.
Don's phone rings and he pounces on it, answering without checking the caller. "Cragen."
Fin barks into his ear once again. "Cap, you might want to turn up your ears, man! A Hudson County dispatcher called me after they got reports of shots being fired with our limo at the scene."
Don feels a cold dread clutch his heart. "Where?"
"All the way over in Secaucus off of the New Jersey Turnpike. They've got an army on the way—it's gone over the wire for all available units to respond."
"We got an address?"
"Some industrial building over off of Castle Road. Where you at?"
"I'm with Carl Wilson's parole officer right now in Mott Haven."
"A'ight, I'll meet you there!"
"Yep." Don ends the call and silence fills the air for a moment. He pushes off of the cubicle wall. "Come on," he snaps at the woman who is draped pitifully over her scattered paperwork. "You're coming with me."