Author's Note:

I noticed a few less reviews on the last chapter, so I'm wondering if you're all still reading… I really hope so, because this has been too much fun for me to give up. =)

Thanks again to Lily Moonlight.

Chapter Eleven

"For Better or For Worse"

Raphael Benevuto releases my hand and continues to smile at me while my stomach slides around uneasily. I'm apprehensive, but not too much so—my tolerance for men like him is severely limited, I have a gun on my hip, and Mac is one good scream away, no matter what the man in front of me has stopped by to do. He's completely calm, so I have a suspicion that he has no idea what happened just a few minutes ago with his bodyguard. If he does, he covers it well beneath a cool and collected veneer. I'm not sure which idea scares me more.

"Luca?" I ask, nodding at the dog, "Like the Godfather?"

He laughs and looks down. "Guilty as charged," he says and I can't help but marvel at his choice of words. "You're a film lover?"

"I can appreciate it," I admit and it's not far from the truth. "So, what brings you over? Unless, of course, Luca felt the need to pay a visit."

"I'm actually looking for a friend of mine," he says and I freeze. "He's run off somewhere and I can't seem to find him. We have plans for later this afternoon."

"Is this friend human or canine?"

"Human," he says with a grin. "Tall, dark, but not that handsome."

"I think I might have run into him. Does he have a temper?" I ask and hold my left wrist up, where red marks signal the evidence of bruises to come. This time, Raphael's grin falters and disappears completely.

"Jesus Christ," he says and ducks his head like he's mortified by the realization. If I hadn't been convinced already that he was a violent sociopath, I would have believed that he was shocked and appalled by the implication. "I am so sorry. Did he hurt you?"

"Nothing that won't heal," I say truthfully but I intentionally leave out the fact that he's probably getting worked over as we speak. Mac doesn't tolerate poor behavior well, so I'm sure he'll end up a little worse for the wear. "He took off somewhere after I threatened to call the cops. I suppose he'll be back around eventually."

"Not if I have anything to say about it," Raphael says dangerously under his breath and I almost believe that the temper is genuine. "Is there anything I can do to make it up to you? I know there's no excusing his behavior."

"Then don't try," I say. "Don't worry, I'm not pressing charges. He'll be a lot worse off when he turns up." Raphael looks at me, surprised. "Self-defense classes. They're a lot more useful than you'd think."

"And here I thought you were a damsel in distress," he muses, his eyes traveling over me in a way that makes me want to disappear completely. Either that, or deck him—both options are viable.

"Not me." I can honestly say that's the last thing I've ever been or will ever be.

"You're a surprising woman, Stella," he tells me and I suppress the urge to cringe. "I can't imagine why Billy would have harmed you—"

"Don't worry," I say quickly. "He didn't."

"Be that as it may," he continues diplomatically, "It was crude and uncalled for, and I apologize from the bottom of my heart. Tell me what I can do for you, really. Anything—you name it."

I'm about to deny the request in the name of integrity before an idea strikes me that I know is probably the worst idea I've had in a long time. If it's not, it's right up there. I can't take it back, though, and once I've thought of it there's no turning back. So, my tentative plan of action in mind, I change my demeanor and give him a welcoming smile.

"I'm sure I could think of something if I tried hard enough," I say and his mouth stretches into a smirk.

"I'm sure you could."

-----

I'm watching through the window and trying to decide if I can get away with murdering the son of a bitch in broad daylight. I see him move just a little closer to Stella and offer her his hand; she takes it and I grind my teeth together to keep from putting my fist through the glass. If Stella knows who he is, she's not letting on. Her stance seems comfortable enough but I can see that she's carrying tension in her shoulders. I want to think it's because she knows who she's talking to, but that could just as easily be from her earlier scuffle against Crusoe as her current conversation.

Behind me, Crusoe is starting to moan and strain against the ropes I've tied around his ankles and wrists. He's blindfolded so I'm not too concerned for the time being; I plan on leaving him alive, and I don't want him to be able to recognize me. The most he'll be able to accomplish this way is the memorization of my voice and my right hook.

I turn back to the window and watch in mute horror as she takes his hand and writes something on the palm with a pen that he gives her. I pray to God that my instincts are dead wrong, but I'm not getting that feeling. Instead I feel like someone's knocked the air out of my chest. I wait until Raphael takes his dog and walks away, smiling back at her. She waits until he's around the corner before walking back to her car, scowling. I move away from the window and run for the door, fully intending to stop her before she can leave.

I bust through the door and she drops her keys next to the car, startled to see me. I can't imagine how pissed off I must look, but I have an idea that it's nowhere near how pissed off I actually feel. Walking up to her, I'm careful to keep my hands away because she's had to deal with enough today without me grabbing her and shaking her until she has more common sense. I must have taken her by surprise, because she just stares and the usual hint of defiance I see in her is missing.

"What the hell was that?" I ask and my voice is a strong whisper. "Do you know who that was?"

"Raphael Benevuto," she replies and bends to pick up her keys. "He was looking for his bodyguard."

"And?"

"And I told him he'll turn up eventually," she replies, her tone completely nonchalant about meeting the one person in the entire world I'd love nothing more than to kill.

"So you give him your phone number?" I ask incredulously. The look on her face tells me that she thinks she did something right, but I have no idea what that would be. I cross my arms over my chest to make sure I don't feel the need to drag her back inside with me and lock the door.

"Look, this is exactly the kind of access you need," she says earnestly. "All you have right now is an empty house and a pair of really expensive spy goggles. This can get us a lot farther than that."

My jaw almost drops.

"Are you out of your mind?!" I shout despite my previous concerns of keeping my voice down. She stares back at me, startled, but doesn't respond. "You just barely get away from the guy's bodyguard and you decide to set up a date with the real thing? This has got to be the stupidest thing you've done so far. This is reckless and it's going to get you killed!"

I realize just a moment too late that I've managed to start our next fight.

She squares her jaw at me and the fire changing the color of her eyes tells me that I'm in for the screaming match of a lifetime. When she finally speaks, her voice is calm and even but simmering with temper that's blazing just below the surface. For some reason, this is even more intimidating than screaming and throwing things. I realize with some dread that I'd rather she hit me than say whatever she's about to say.

"The last time I checked, I was a detective," she seethes, "Not a kindergarten teacher."

"I never said you were."

"But you treat me like I am," she replies and I wither a little under her gaze. "If you care to tell me that I am unprepared or unqualified for my position one more time, I'll prove you wrong by bringing attention to your existence that has, thus far, been concealed. I've informed my colleagues of your innocence; don't make me regret that."

All I can do is give an almost imperceptible nod of my head—nothing about this woman makes her seem capable of producing an empty threat.

"I'm helping you because the evidence we gather will be crucial to stopping both Benevuto and La Salle and will give closure to their victims and their families," she tells me. "Not because I'm after your approval."

"I didn't say that."

"Of course not," she says with a hint of sarcasm. "So these are your choices: You can either be a pain in my ass and continue to patronize me, in which case I'll send the entire NYPD to your doorstep; or you can help me and we'll both get what we're after."

The ultimatum is clear-cut, and I'm not in a position to refuse her.

"You'll let me help?" I ask, but what I'm really wondering is if she'll let me protect her to the best of my ability. For a moment I think she understands that, because she grits her teeth and squares her shoulders. I can only guess that she's temporarily set her pride aside when she nods. Her dark curls bob around her face and before I can say anything else she turns to unlock the car.

"I'll call you if he makes contact," she says and climbs behind the wheel. I watch her pull out of the driveway and speed back down the road, headed toward the city. I spare only a moment to stare after her before turning and walking back into the house, where something much less desirable is demanding my attention.

-----

I don't go home immediately, because between my altercation with the bodyguard and my power struggle with Mac I'm more than listless. My fingers are beating out the rhythm of the song on the radio and my foot is tapping on the floorboard, because I have no other place to divert the energy. I take the long way back to the city and it's just as well because I'm not sure Flack would like getting a call telling him that I got a speeding ticket while driving his car. He might laugh, but he might not; especially considering that I hadn't told him what I planned to do with it. He'd handed the keys over, sure, but don't think I missed that curious look in his eyes for a second.

It's all Mac's fault that I'm bent out of shape.

I've never met a man who infuriates me so well, and it's only worse that I want to smile at him after I stop yelling. I give him an opportunity, a really damn good one, and he gets mad at me. And of course it's even worse that he'd just saved my ass in an otherwise losing battle with someone who had me by at least sixty pounds and a foot in height. Don't get me wrong, I can hold my own, but I can hold it a lot better when it's not a surprise attack. If it hadn't been for Mac, though… I shiver. I don't want to think about that. I'm trying to be mad at him. I mean, who was he to question my abilities as a detective? He doesn't even know me.

The jerk.

When I get back to the city, my first stop is Flack's apartment. It's the early evening now—the sun's just starting to go down—but I have a feeling he's home. I find a parking spot in the far corner of the lot and my hand unconsciously drifts to the gun at my hip. Being NYPD for all these years has taught me to be careful, and unfortunately that ends up translating into paranoia more often than not. I make it to the elevator unscathed and I'm lucky to find it deserted; there's something strange about sharing an elevator with strangers. You'd think that with all my time in a city as huge as New York I'd get used to it, but it hasn't happened yet and I don't expect it to any time soon.

Flack's apartment is at the end of a tidy but sparse hall—his building isn't exactly Park Avenue, but it's not Harlem either. It's filled mostly with other people just like him: hard workers with a paycheck that leaves something to be desired. He complains every now and then about the people who live above him, but it only took one visit with his badge in hand to convince them that they really didn't need their music that loud.

I knock on his door and I hear hushed voices before heavy footfalls sound behind the door. I feel Flack on the other side of the door, staring through the lens at me. I offer him my best non-confrontational smile and I hear the lock slide back. When he opens the door, he's in a navy NYPD t-shirt and he has a piece of bloody Kleenex hanging out of his nose.

"Interesting look," I say, studying him. "Whose fist did you block with your face?"

"Very funny," he replies and I muffle a laugh at the nasal intonation of his voice. "Perp decides today that if he wins a fist fight with yours truly, he gets off scot-free. Freaking idiot. I'm telling you, we don't get paid enough to deal with this crap."

I give him a bright smile. "Who won?"

He glares again but holds out his hand. "Keys?"

"I was getting there," I counter and pull them out of my pocket. I step towards him to hand them over and catch a whiff of something that doesn't smell much like his cologne. I hold the keys in my hand and ask, "Dolce and Gabbana?"

He freezes and looks like a deer caught in headlights.

"What?"

"Dolce and Gabbana; it's really good stuff. Isn't that Angell's perfume?" I ask although the question is pointless; I already know the answer. There's no way I spend this many years as an investigator and don't piece together evidence of an affair when it's right in front of my face; particularly when it's my best friend and his partner.

"What?" he says again and it's almost a stutter this time. Before he has time to answer, the woman in question walks up behind him and leans against the doorframe, giving me an amused smile. Her hair is pulled up in a messy ponytail behind her head, and she looks just as comfortable in Flack's sweats as he does.

"Hey, Stella," she says and we both revel in the sight of the blush creeping up the usually cocky detective's neck.

"Hey, Jess," I reply and by the time I've finished the sentence, Flack is beet red. "I just came to drop off his keys." I turn to look at Flack. "Thanks again, by the way. I put gas in it to make up for leaving you without transportation."

He nods mutely and takes the keys.

"I'll let you get back to your night," I say and wave goodbye to the both of them. By the time I make it to the elevator, I hear the door close followed immediately by footsteps that I recognize as Flack's. I turn around to face him just as he's reaching me and he grinds to a halt, looking as though he were about to be interrogated. But, in typical Flack fashion, he beats me to the punch.

"Hey, wait up," he says and I forget about pressing the button for the elevator.

"Yeah?"

"Are you mad at me?" he asks and I look at him like he's crazy.

"Why would I be mad at you?" I reply but he still looks frantic.

"You know, because I didn't tell you about Jess and me," he says, his eyes wide.

"I'm sorry," I say, shaking my head. "I can't take you seriously with a tissue up your nose."

He grunts in frustration and yanks the tissue out.

"Better?"

"Much."

"I was going to tell you," he says earnestly. "It was crazy—just one day, she was this cool chick who happened to be my partner, and then: bam! I was crazy about her. Out of nowhere, you know? I meant to talk to you about it, but it just never came up and I couldn't have figured out the right words anyway even if it had."

"You're not required to tell me everything," I reply and run my hand down his arm. "I understand completely, and I'm happy for both of you."

"Good," he says, "No, well, great. But that's not what I meant. I just didn't want you to think that I was keeping something from you." He looks down at me and his look is much more serious an expression than I'm used to seeing on him. "Because, you know, I'd be hurt if you started keeping things from me. That's what friends do; we talk to each other."

Ooh. He really knows how to hit a nerve.

"Of course we talk," I say, wishing with every fiber of my being that I didn't have to hold out on him the way I do. "There's nothing you can't tell me, and I know you're here when I need you."

"Yeah. Exactly," he says and smiles. "Anyway, I've got to get back. But I'll see you later, okay?"

"Definitely," I agree and watch him turn to walk away. His strides are long and confident, and I can tell that he feels much better going back to the door than he did walking away from it. Halfway back down the hallway I call to his back, "Be good to her, Don."

He turns around and grins.

"Who do you take me for?" he answers and this time I smile and press the button for the elevator to take me back down to the street, where I'll call a cab and ask to be taken back to my apartment.

It takes almost fifteen minutes outside for a beaten-up yellow cab to pull to the curb. On the ride back to my apartment, my thoughts are with Flack and Angell. I really like the idea of them together, I decide after a few long moments of consideration. She's tough enough to put up with him and all his macho crap, and I know that he's dedicated and secure enough to keep up with her without causing too much of a problem. Separately they're fierce—I've worked with both of them enough times to know that—but something tells me that together they'll be invincible.

This is the thought that brings me to my front door after paying the cab fare and taking the elevator up. I almost go through the door without noticing the envelope that's taped to it. I stare at it for a moment or two, wondering how much weirder one day could possibly get. Unwilling to jinx myself, I take the envelope down and walk into my apartment. I close the door behind me and sit down on my couch to open whatever it is that's been left for me, the more morbid part of my brain screaming that I probably don't want to know what's in there. I know for a fact that it's almost statistically impossible that it's good news; it's not often that my mail skips the box and comes straight to me.

I tear open the envelope and take out a plain piece of white paper with a man's small handwriting on it. The letters are slanted but neat and easily legible, but I don't recognize it as anyone I work with—that's the handwriting that I spend the most time studying. I read the letter, and somehow I'm not surprised.

Stella:

Tomorrow I'll be in New Jersey doing some research if you're up to wasting another of your days off.

-M.T.

And then, as though scribbled as an afterthought:

p.s.—Sorry.

I can't help but laugh, and even then the smile won't come off my face. I don't know how he manages to do it, but somehow he beat me into the city with enough time to leave me a note and make off without a trace. It's very sneaky, and it's very him. I almost wonder if I passed him on the way here—of course, since he is who he is, I wouldn't have noticed. His apology is noted, however, and I probably have one of my own to make. I'll call him early tomorrow morning to let him know I'm on the case. I'll give Danny and Flack notice that I'll be out of town so they know to call in someone else if they need me and then—theoretically—all my bases will be covered.

Until then, the rest of the night is ahead of me and I have a feeling I'll be spending it doing the one chore I hate the most: laundry.

A/N: I decided that I'd spent a little too much time making Mac and Stella fight, so I wanted them to offer a bit of peace to the other. What do you think?