When Beckett led the newly-arrested perp out of the sweaty club at three in the morning, she wasn't surprised that it was raining. However, it was February so getting rained on in the tiny dress she was wearing wasn't exactly ideal. The irony of starting and ending her day with a cold shower was not lost on her, even if they had occurred for entirely different reasons.
As soon as the scumbag – as Ryan had decided to name him – was squared away into the squad car, Esposito appeared with an NYPD-issue rain coat which he wasted no time in wrapping around Kate's shoulders. "Come on, Beckett, I'm giving you a ride home." She began to protest but he was too quick for her, "He'll still be in lock-up in the morning. You need to get some sleep in your nice snuggly bed so you can properly rip into him after his sleepless night on concrete."
She shrugged, conceding the point. "Well, when you put it that way... Take me home, Javi."
She would never breathe a word about it to anyone, but waking up cocooned in blankets with Derrick Storm as the big spoon had been Clara Strike's favourite fantasy way to wake up for quite some time now. The reality is not disappointing in the slightest. His arm is wrapped gently but protectively around her, their legs are tangled together and his quiet exhalations tickle her neck. Yes, she really could get used to this.
A devious grin crosses her face. She could get used to the events of the night before too. She wiggles her shoulders and hips to get even closer to Storm and is rewarded with a deep, gravelly groan. She giggles silently and wiggles her hips again.
"Dammit Clara, was last night not enough for you?" He couldn't see her eyebrow rising to an elegant peak, but he doesn't need to because he knows it's there. He feathers a kiss across her shoulder and begins to smooth the palm of his hand downwards over her taut stomach muscles. The phone on his bedside table has other ideas...
"Beckett." As dispatch rattled off an address she jotted it down and tried to clear her mind of the dream she wished she was still having. She looked at her phone after hanging up and was about to throw it across the room when she remembered she needed to call Ryan and Esposito. Maybe the next time dispatch woke her less than two hours after she fell asleep she'd pitch it out of the window.
"Morning, Lanie." The medical examiner looked up at the detective from the back of the OCME van and raised an eyebrow.
"Damn girl, did you get out the wrong side of bed this morning?"
Kate sighed and tried not to rub the heels of her hands into her eyes. "Long night, previous case not finished yet, though we got the guy, and I still don't know what I did in a past life that gave us the call this morning."
Esposito came up along side them to answer the unspoken question, "Wallis' team got called out at two A.M., they were on call from midnight. We got the next one." He shrugged and clapped Ryan on the shoulder as he arrived. Ryan just groaned in response.
"Well, since we're all here... shall we?" proposed Lanie.
"Yeah. Why not."
As the group passed into the office, they collectively paused to take in the crime scene.
"Well, this is definitely Beckett-flavoured," offered Esposito before he headed for the nearest uniformed officer to see what had been found so far. Ryan peeled off to speak to the CSU techs, leaving Lanie and Kate to slowly step towards the victim.
Arranged in the centre of a chalked pentagram, complete with flickering candles and occult symbols, the as-yet-unknown male was face down on the floor tiles. Beckett's eyes narrowed, somewhere in her mind a tiny bell was ringing and she desperately tried to hear it. Lanie waited for the tech taking photographs to give her the nod to say he'd finished, and with that she carefully stepped into the chalk markings to begin her initial examination.
Esposito came up beside Beckett and reeled off the information he'd gained. "Name's Marvin Fisk, lawyer, he worked here. Found by the cleaning staff at around six ten, and the one who came in here first hasn't taken it all that well. She's in the ladies' rest room just around that corner. There's an officer with an iron stomach keeping an eye on her." She nodded in reply and turned away from the crime scene to begin her investigation.
When she wakes she's not entirely sure where in the city she is, but he's driving one of his beloved Fords and his hand is resting heavily on her thigh. She smiles. "Hey. You dozed off for a bit there. Did you not get much sleep last night?" Oh so innocent. Two can play at that game.
"Y'know, I seem to remember we had some pressing... issues... that I had to take care of. So, no, I didn't get much sleep last night."
"Oh well, it's a shame to be kept awake by issues." She hums in reply and Derrick glances over at her to waggle his eyebrows. Clara couldn't help the laugh that erupts from her and the grin that spreads across her face. He gives her leg a quick squeeze before he lets it go to change down the gears for a stop light.
"Remind me of the plan again?"
"Alright, but only because it's you. We're heading into Brooklyn to speak with Roberto Varín. We even have an appointment."
"That's incredibly civilised."
"Tell me about it. Hopefully he'll cooperate and dish out the dirt on whoever killed our man."
The rest of the journey passes quickly and quietly. Storm pulls up on a leafy street watched over by The Shrine Church of Saint Bernadette and kills the engine. "Unlikely place for a mafia compound, isn't it?" she asks as an SUV rolls past.
He looks over the street to the walled garden, trees mostly camouflaging the one storey building from prying eyes. He shrugs, "Never judge a book by its cover."
They step out of the car and a breeze wafts down the street, rustling the leaves in the trees and making the fronts of their jackets flap a little, though not enough to reveal the heat they're packing. It ruffles Storm's hair and Strike is about to reach up to brush it off his face when he beats her to it and gives her a cautionary look. Business before pleasure today, Strike.
He lets her ring the doorbell, knowing full well that it's pointless. They'll have been clocked on the closed circuit cameras when he was parking the car. The occupants of the building wait the requisite amount of time before opening the door and they are greeted by a swarthy man in his late forties who looks like his mama knows how to cook a mean lasagne. He gestures them inside without a word and closes the door with a quiet finality that puts Strike on edge.
Storm looks as detached as ever as he unbuttons his jacket and removes his gun from the shoulder holster, checking the safety is on before placing it down on the sideboard by the door. She frowns at his actions and he raises an eyebrow at her, glancing at his gun then back to her. As if he'd see us if we were armed, Strike. She copies his disarming with a frown that's partly at the situation they've walked into and partly wondering when she started hearing his thoughts.
Their welcoming committee gives them both a nod and turns, leading them through the hallway and into a living room. Strike is beginning to think this isn't an office for Varín, it's his compound, his headquarters. His home. She feels slightly better about leaving her gun behind, though she misses the comforting weight on her hip, because surely even a mobster wouldn't kill someone in his own house, right? Cleaning up the mess would be a bitch. Mr Silent leaves them in the room with the door open and his footsteps can be heard on the terracotta floor tiles as he goes deeper into the house.
They're not kept waiting long, as their gracious host appears three minutes later, introducing himself with warm smiles and friendly handshakes. Strike manages to not do a double take when Storm introduces himself as Dustin Hold and her as Colette Coup – what the hell, Storm. Varín asks them to follow him to his office, as if they have a choice in the matter. It's a nice gesture at least.
"So, how can I help you Mr Hold?" He sounds like he's smoked ten fat Cuban cigars every day since he popped out of his mother's womb. Strike feels like she'll be ignored for the rest of this conversation, and takes the opportunity to sneak glances around to get a feel of the man behind the reports on the file.
"An... associate of ours met an unfortunate end recently, Mr Varín, and we were wondering if you might be able to help us find out why."
The boss' face becomes solemn as he offers his condolences. Neither agent believes the act for a second. Storm gives a potted history of the incident and asks him if he knew JT Richards at all. Varín's face flickers to recognition but his voice is weakly denying it. "No, the name ain't familiar I'm afraid."
Strike chooses this time to draw attention to herself by crossing her legs and leaning her elbow on the armrest of the chair she is sat in. As Varín gives her his attention she flicks her eyebrow at him, don't lie you scumbag.
His façade slips a little. Good, she thinks, be scared of me. He returns his gaze to Storm and gives him a wry shrug. "So maybe I knew the guy a little. Was beginnin' to wonder where he'd got to. He was doing some work for me when he wasn't too busy with that other job he was doin'."
Storm almost cuts across the end of his sentence, "What sort of work?"
"Oh just bitsa things, y'know? Drivin', deliverin', collectin'. Easy stuff. Didn't even hafta lend him a car, he used his own."
"Were his deliveries and collections always carried out smoothly?"
Varín nods, "Far as I can tell, sure."
Storm nods and stands abruptly. Strike warily follows suit. "Thank you for your time, Mr Varín."
"A pleasure, Mr Hold, Miz Coup."
Mr Silent appears at the office door as they exchange handshakes with the mob boss once more and leads them out to collect their guns. He opens the front door and ushers them out without any flourish or sound. Strike shudders involuntarily as they hit the warmth outside after ten minutes of cold air conditioning.
Beckett woke up without any blankets, limbs shivering as her muscles tried to keep warm, and she looked over at the clock on her bedside table with a resigned scowl. Half five was as good a time as any to get up and get moving. If she got a hustle on, she might get half an hour in the bullpen to herself to study the murder board and try to figure out what the little bell was ringing for in the back of her mind about Marvin Fisk.
In the shower, she briefly allowed herself the traitorous thought that she might have preferred a little longer with Derrick Storm.
