Title: Criminal Acts (13/?)
Author: StargazerNataku
Rating: PG
Genre: Drama
Characters: Detective Gerry Stephens, Renee Montoya, Jim Gordon, Batman
Summary: Even after twenty years in the Gotham City police department and there were some cases that never got easier. It began with an overdose…and continued with answers.
A/N: Chapter 13, folks. :-) After my final I'm going to finish the rewriting process; my goal is to have the fic finished and posted by the time I start spring semester (January 18). So we have a timeline. Yell at me if I fail, okay, everyone? And again, thanks to my awesometastic beta, gaudy_night.
Chapter 13
Stephens bit back a yawn as the elevator doors opened onto the MCU and stepped out, aware of the normal hum of conversation and doubly aware when it cut off abruptly as he appeared, Montoya and Bullock steps behind. He looked at the other officers, who were suddenly trying to look busy, purposefully ignoring their presence in the room. "Something I need to know about?" he asked into the silent bullpen. No one responded. "Because I'm not stupid and it seems like there is." There was a long stretch of silence before one of the younger members of the squad spoke up.
"Lombardi and Alcott were just telling us about their beat last night, that's all, sir."
"Yeah? Must be pretty exciting if you all are listening so intently."
"It was, sir."
"Well, Lombardi, why was it so exciting?" The man straightened and glanced to his partner.
"We got into a bit of trouble, and a…what did Allen call it?"
"A good Samaritan helped us out of it. That's what we're calling it, isn't it, detective?" Stephens' eyes narrowed and after a moment, he shook his head.
"You can call it whatever you want. But remember that whatever you say, or suppose, could have an adverse effect on the Commissioner. He's only been conscious for seventy-two hours and he's got more important things to worry about. Got it?" There were nods and under-breath commentary. "Now we've got work to do. Get to it." He cut through the room and made his way to his desk.
"Nice, Gerry, way to stir the rumor mill," Montoya commented.
"Yeah, well, I wasn't built to deal with shit like that. I'll be glad when Jim's back and I don't have to."
"We all will," Bullock agreed, seating himself at his desk and pulling some papers closely to him.
"And I'll be glad when we get this son of a bitch," Montoya commented, looking at the papers in front of her. "He's been busy, but no hits last night or the night before."
"Well, lets just pick up where we left off yesterday," he said as his desk phone rang. He glared at it for an instant before he looked to Monotya and Bullock. "If this is the mayor giving me shit, I'm going to quit, just so you both have fair warning." He took the handset of the receiver. "Stephens…really? This morning? Think there's something to it?" He listened in silence. "We'll check it out, thanks for the tip." He hung up, getting immediately to his feet, and looked to the other two detectives. "Our perp may have been spotted this morning. Come on, Montoya. If this pans out, we may be able to get the bastard." She nodded, and as quickly as they had arrived at the MCU, they were headed out again.
X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X
Stephens pulled up outside the ramshackle diner tucked onto a dirty corner just off the docks. "Seems like a fitting place for a rat," Montoya commented.
"And a safe one. Almost no one around here would turn anyone else in, because a lot of them are wanted themselves." Montoya nodded. "Not a good neighborhood to be a cop in either."
"Nope," she said, her hand going to the door handle. "You said it was the owner of the diner that called us?"
"Yeah. May have had him in for breakfast this morning." He turned off the ignition and opened his door. "Let's see what we can get." He got out of the car, keeping a casual but careful eye on the neighborhood around him as he and Montoya crossed to the dilapidated door and entered. He gave the place a cursory inspection, noted the empty booths down the wall, save the last where two young women—probably prostitutes by their appearance, his mind added—were having their morning coffee. The counter was equally empty, save for an older man sitting at the end by the cash register. He glanced to them as they entered and crossed to him, stubbing out the cigarette he'd been savoring in the ashtray at his elbow.
"Menu?" he asked, his voice roughened by smoking, a faded Irish accent twisting the words slightly.
"Just coffee, if you don't mind," Stephens said.
"Two?"
"Please," Montoya added, slipping onto one of the stools at the counter. Stephens took the place beside her and waited while the man got out two mugs, chipped about the bottom but spotlessly clean, and filled them.
"Are you Mr. O'Sullivan?" Stephens asked when the man had put the coffee pot back down.
"Who's asking?"
"I'm Detective Stephens, and this is my partner Detective Montoya. I believe you called in a possible lead on an ongoing investigation."
"Oh, aye, I did," he said. "Was an odd thing, this morning. Got a guy, always comes in and has a cup of coffee and some toast. Can't afford much more than that, odds are, most in this neighborhood can't. Started coming in maybe awhile back, never saw him before that, but he's been pretty regular since. Comes in maybe once a week. Sometimes more, sometimes less. This morning was no different, though I had that old TV on like I usually don't. Wanted to catch the Knights' score from last night." He motioned to a small, ancient television perched on the counter at the end of the bar, one broken rabbit ear drooping forlornly in front of the screen.
"All right?"
"Anyway, they cut into sports with that special report that the commissioner had woke up, and this guy gets all upset about it, actually cursed up about it. That made me take notice, and I got a bit of a look at him, and thought 'well that's odd, that.' Particularly when he left, obviously angry, after throwing a ten down for a cup of coffee. That's a big tip. Well then I noticed…" He went behind the bar and lifted a dilapidated ten dollar bill from beside the register. He laid it on the counter. Montoya whistled when she caught a glance.
"Looks like blood," Stephens said.
"That's what I thought," O'Sullivan said. "Seemed odd, all told."
"We're going to need to take that with us," Stephens said, drawing an evidence bag from the pocket of his coat. "Do you know any personal details about the customer?"
"Not really. Except…well, he was in one day and a guy came in to meet him. Called him 'Crevan,' never asked because it wasn't my business then, but that's his name I think. First or last or fake, I dunno."
"Crevan…" Stephens said, a frown creasing his face.
"What'd he look like?" Montoya asked.
"Well, he's got a buzz cut, what little hair he did have's kinda grayish blonde, brown eyes, a real sharp nose. I'd say he's probably in his thirties, though that's a hard guess. Was wearing jeans, a black jacket, and a red shirt. They're all pretty threadbare; only thing ever changes he wears is the t-shirt. Sometimes it's blue. Not much to him, all told. Wouldn't have noticed him at all if he hadn't acted so funny."
"Would you be able to recognize him if you saw him again?" Montoya asked.
"Aye, likely so."
"Was there anything else?" she asked.
"He was favorin' his arm, his right one. Moved a few times like it was hurtin' him."
Montoya glanced at Stephens, who looked to O'Sullivan again. "Where was it hurting him?"
"Upper, right up around here." He tapped his arm halfway up his bicep. "Took the coat off for a bit and he had it bandaged up under the t-shirt, I think. Was visible when he moved his arm sometimes."
"All right," Stephens said, getting to his feet, his eyes troubled. "Here's my card, Mr. O'Sullivan. Please call me if you remember anything else."
"Sure will. You think it's the same guy you're looking for?"
"It's too early to tell," Stephens said. "Thank you for your help. We'll be in touch."
"Aye," the man said, and went back around the counter to his stool as Stephens and Montoya went back out to the car. They got in, Stephens sticking the key into the ignition though he paused for a long moment without turning it.
"You okay, partner?" Montoya asked him finally.
"I've heard that name before, Renee. I can't place it, but I've heard it."
"You sure? It's not exactly a common one."
"Yes." He finally turned the key, the car coming to life. Turning on the signal he pulled out into the street and headed back towards downtown and the MCU. He weaved in and out of the traffic, driving as quickly as he could easily justify, wishing he could just turn on a set of sirens and get everyone out of his way. Waiting at a red light, fingers tapping impatiently on the steering wheel, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to look as a young blonde woman and an older man stepped into the street, hurrying to make it across before the flashing "Don't Walk" sign turned steady and traffic started moving the other direction. "Come on, Dad!" she called back over her shoulder. His eyes widened suddenly as memory struck, remembering a frigid night in a dingy apartment some months before.
"Christ," he cursed. "Damn it to hell, it's been right there in front of us the entire time!"
"Gerry?" Montoya asked with a frown.
"I think I know who we're looking for. Damn it, it makes perfect sense!" The light turned green and Stephens accelerated immediately, driving even faster than he had been through the streets, his hands clenched tightly on the steering wheel. At his side, Montoya kept shooting him semi-concerned glances but she wisely said nothing, not even when they were parked and Stephens jumped out of the car and ran for the elevators. Hurrying to keep up, Montoya barely made it in before the elevator doors were closing and Stephens was jamming the button for the MCU.
"Stop a minute," she said. "What's going on?" Stephens did not answer, instead he darted out into the bullpen and crossed the room quickly to his desk, pushing several other cops out of the way as Montoya followed, making apologies as best she could while keeping up with her partner.
At his desk, he unlocked and opened the drawer and yanked out a pair of files. "Here," he said, opening one of them and shoving it at her. "Look."
"But this is the file for…"
"Exactly," Stephens interrupted. "Look." He pointed to the top of the first page of the file.
"Crevan Br…I'll be damned."
"Plenty of motive for both the dealers, junkies, and the cops, wouldn't you say? We gotta find this guy." He opened the second file and quickly copied the address there onto another piece of paper. "Here. We'll start here. Come on." Without another word he was moving back towards the elevator at a rush. Rolling her eyes, Montoya closed the folder and set it aside before following her partner.