The Return of Matt Houston - 9/Apart – 12

He woke up the next morning feeling the usual euphoria from spending a night with a woman he loved, but also feeling remorse. He didn't ask the questions he promised himself he'd ask. And now she was gone …again, and there was no telling when she'd return. How ironic that the man who was once one of the best investigators in the country missed yet another opportunity to have the most important conversation of his life. Perhaps he lost his touch. He used to be so good at the detective game - but that was a long time ago.

This day, though, he vowed would be different. He'd be more aggressive, take matters into his own hands, find out as much he could. He'd start with that locked desk in her bedroom.

He searched for something to jimmy it open with and went to the kitchen, opening several drawers until he found a small screwdriver. When he returned he started wedging the tip in the keyhole, trying to outwit the lock. He stopped when he heard the door to the apartment open and close.

"Damn!" he swore under his breath. It was probably John, his unwelcome guardian. He had no choice but to set the screwdriver down and greet him. His chain reaction thinking led him to wishing he had a strong drink like a screwdriver to offer him. Maybe if he got him drunk he'd be more interesting to talk to. Then an idea popped in his head. He went into his suitcase and took a few tranquilizers from a pill bottle and put them in his pocket.

"You again," he greeted John sourly as soon as he saw him, also wondering if it was his real name. It seemed so plain, so boring – which, now that he thought about, was much like his personality.

"Nice to see you too," he said, mimicking the negative tone.

"Coffee?" he offered, making his way over to the kitchen counter.

"No thanks. I don't drink coffee."

Of course he didn't. Only interesting people drink coffee.

"Anything else, you know like a beer or something?"

"I don't drink alcohol on the job."

"Okay …"

"Is there a bottle of vegetable juice in the refrigerator? I'll take some of that."

Matt made a face. "You mean the green stuff?"

"Uh huh."

"You like it?"

"Yep."

Matt shook his head.

"Okay. One glass of green rocket fuel coming up."

Matt opened the refrigerator, lifted out the suspicious green juice, unscrewed the cap and poured it into a glass while making a face. He secretively reached into his pocket, smashed the pills as he dropped them into the glass, swishing the glass around to speed up the process.

He walked over to the sofa, bringing John his juice as he settled with his cup of coffee.

"What's the latest on the weather?" he asked, trying to make conversation.

John shrugged while staring blankly at the TV. "Your guess is as good as mine."

Matt sighed inwardly as he surreptitiously watched John drink the juice.

"How are the Mets and Yankees doing so far this season?"

John shrugged. "I don't know."

"Not a sports guy?"

"Nope."

Matt drew in a deep breath, looking forward to the moment when John would succumb to the medicine.


About 25 minutes later John's eyelids started to waver close and before he knew it, he was out cold on the sofa.

Matt rushed back to the desk, determined to open it, working harder on the lock, hitting it with greater effort than he did earlier.

He tried to do it as softly as he could, yet quickly and forcefully enough to open it. He was about to swear at it again when it finally gave way. He celebrated quietly by pumping his fist in the air, then quickly started rummaging through its contents.

In the first drawer he found the usual desk accessories: a stapler, pens, pencils, and scissors. In another drawer, underneath a memo pad, he found a small picture frame, double hinged. When he opened it, there were two black and white photographs under glass. He recognized them immediately. One was of C.J.'s father, and one was of C.J. and him when they were much younger. He felt special. She kept it all these years.

At the bottom of the frames, though, peaked a tiny piece of white paper. Curious, he tugged on it and removed it, unfolded it, and found some numbers written on it.

"123987. 102030. 198555. 010203."

Hopeful thinking told him one of the numbers belonged to the lock on the apartment door. He walked out into the living room and went to the punch pad on the door and pressed the first set of numbers. That didn't work so he tried another… then another… until… he heard a click. It opened. Success.

He grabbed a few belongings and walked out into the hall, doing his best to retrace his steps from two days prior until he was at the doors to the elevator. From there he pressed the button for the lobby. When the doors opened, he walked out and hailed a taxi to Sgt. Benson's office.


Sgt. Benson heard the door to her office open but she just assumed it was one of her coworkers. She didn't look up at first, intent on finishing some work on her computer.

"Sgt. Benson…" he interrupted.

She recognized his voice and immediately lifted her head.

"Houston! What brings you here?"

He shut the door behind him and removed his hat and sunglasses. Between his makeshift disguise and his body language, it was obvious he didn't want too many people to know he was there.

"What do you know about C.J?" he asked pointedly.

"What do I know about C.J.? What do you mean?"

A little embarrassed to admit his reasons, he drew in a deep breath. "She's been very secretive, hasn't told me much. She told me to trust her... you told me to trust her, and I do, it's just that ... well ... something's not right. I can feel it."

In the days since the shooting and his disappearance, SVU detectives had done their own research – at least research that wasn't hidden by The Company, and came upon some startling information on C.J., alias Susan Reeder. They weren't sure if or when they'd get the opportunity to share their discoveries with Houston. Furthermore, the eternal romantic in her wasn't keen on dashing his long-awaited dream.

Olivia swallowed hard, bracing to share what she knew with him.

"Alright. But you may not like what I have to show you."

He looked at her curiously as she returned to her desk and pulled out a file from a desk drawer. The best way to tell him, she decided, was to show him the evidence. He would never believe it otherwise.


A few hours later, C.J. returned to the apartment and immediately searched for Matt.

"Houston?" she called out, walking into the kitchen, then into the living room.

She didn't see any sign of him nor John and a sickening feeling started in her gut. She walked towards the patio and caught a glimpse of John sleeping soundly on the sofa. It wasn't like him to fall asleep on the job. She put her hands on her hips and thought a moment.

"Mattlock Houston!" she cursed in stressed whisper.

She knew him well. He wasn't one to sit idle and let others do legwork for him. He didn't like being in the dark. He must have snuck out on John when he was asleep. Just when she thought she had enough work to do. Houston was making her life harder – much harder.

She walked over to John and shook him.

"John! John!"

"What!" he said upon arousal.

"What happened?"

"What do you mean what happened?"

"Where's Houston?"

He sprang up and did a quick search.

"He's gone?"

"Apparently so. Guess he took advantage of your precious beauty sleep and left. God only knows where's he's gone. We can't protect him now."

"How did he get out? He could only have done that if he had the code. Did you tell him?"

"No of course not!"

An idea popped into both their heads at the same time. She retreated to the bedroom to check on her desk with John trailing behind her. She went over to it and opened the drawers easily. The lock had been broken. Things were not as she left it.

"Damn!"

"He broke into your desk and found the code."

"It seems so."

"I'll see if I can track him. Maybe he didn't get too far."


After his meeting, Matt needed a long walk in the open air to think over his new dilemma. But asphalt, concrete and tall buildings blocking the sun weren't helping much. He needed grass, trees, wildlife. He hailed a cab to let him off in Central Park.

C.J. was probably in the apartment by now, puzzled and possibly even angry as to his whereabouts. He was angry too. His head told him to believe the iron-clad evidence Sgt. Benson showed him. His heart told him there had to be very good reasons C.J. would do such things, if she did such things. She had been so secretive, told him to trust her without giving him much information. What was he to think? It could very well be that there was a very good explanation. There was also a chance that there wasn't.

Could it be that C.J. was involved in something illegal? It had been 30 years since they'd been together. Maybe in the years since they'd been apart, she had gone bad. She knew his capabilities, his strengths, his weaknesses. Maybe with that wealth of information, she was setting him up to dupe him somehow, distracting him by seducing him, knowing full well he'd fall for her and lose sight of the most important issue.

What if she wasn't even the real C.J.? What if by some bizarre twist, she was one of those secret agents who had plastic surgery, spent years studying a person's mannerisms, vocal inflections and their traits and assumed her identity? Or what if it was part of some elaborate plot by one of his enemies to do him in once and for all. They found a doppelganger – a woman who sounded like C.J., looked like C.J., acted like C.J. It wouldn't be the first time someone went to extremes to bring him down. The exact scenario happened to him once upon a time, so it was possible. Maybe the woman he's been sleeping the past two nights with was, in fact, a complete stranger.

He knew it was time to put emotions aside, confront her with the cold hard facts. It was time to have a conversation he had been waiting 30 years to have.