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ORANGE JUICE AND CHOCOLATE

Eames was vaguely aware of the throbbing in her arm as she forced her eyes open. The back of her neck was wet and her mouth was dry. She rolled onto her back and stared at the off-white ceiling until she was awake enough to fully appreciate the agony in her arm. She examined the bandage for a moment and pulled herself out of her sister's bed.

When she entered the living room, Grace jumped to her feet. "Mom."

"Hey, sweetheart."

The two embraced. Eames held on to her in a crouched position for a long moment. Tears filled her eyes. "Grace, I'm sorry I've been gone for a few days."

Grace shrugged. It was a habit she had developed. "What's that on your arm?" Grace asked in a whisper.

Eames wiped away the moisture in her eyes. "Well, when I was at work, there was a man who had a gun and—" Eames paused and looked to her sister who sat watching on the couch, "and he didn't know how be careful. You know how I always say that guns are dangerous and not toys."

Grace gave a shallow nod.

"Well this man thought it was a toy. The gun fired and I got hurt." Eames waited for a moment then said, "but I'm fine. I just have a big cut."

Grace eyed her mother for a moment but seemed okay.

"Why aren't you at school?" Eames asked.

Grace smiled, "There's no school today."

Eames looked to her sister.

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, "it's Saturday, Alex."

Eames stood and looked down at Grace who nodded. Eames said, "Wow, I guess it must be Saturday." She looked at the clock of the wall and let out a sharp breath—it was one in the afternoon. "I haven't slept in this late in a long time." She was almost proud of herself.

Grace went back to her toys and Eames stood watching her for a moment. As she watched, her vision blurred with tears. Eames felt sick to her stomach—she couldn't remember the last time she had eaten, so she poured herself a bowl cereal and ate in a daze. She had a dull headache and felt like she could go right back to sleep.

Her nephew sat down across from her, "hi, Alex. How are you?"

Eames lifted her head and saw the bright-eyed boy gazing directly into her eyes. She smiled at him weakly. "I'm okay."

He lifted an eyebrow—a talent he spent months in front of a mirror perfecting. Liz often tells Eames, "he looks just like you when he does that."

"Really, I'm fine," Eames reassured the boy.

"Can I see it?" He asked.

"See what?"

"You know—" he motioned to his own arm, "Do you have a hole in your arm?"

"No. It's just a—" she looked down at the bandage and realized she never really looked at the wound, "I don't know, I don't have a hole in my arm, though."

"Please, Alex." He said with a smile. All of her other nieces and nephews called her Aunt Alex, but there was something different about the two of them. Somehow it never occurred to him to call her Aunt and it never occurred to her that he should.

"Maybe when it heals a little more you can see it."

"Okay," he walked around the table and gave her a hug before leaving her to her cereal and throbbing arm.

"Alex," her sister said, "did he ask if he could see your gunshot wound?"

"Yeah, but I didn't show him."

"I wish you would've."

"Why?"

"He wants to be a cop when he grows up. Maybe seeing it will change his mind."

"He wants to be a cop? When did this happen?"

"I don't know. He hasn't mentioned it to you?"

"No." Eames said.

"Do me a favor and show him—I need you to scare him a little."

"He's twelve years old; he'll change his mind in a week. And what's so bad about him wanting to be a cop?"

"Would you really want him or Grace to be cops?"

Eames really hadn't thought about it before. Immediately she thought about Joe.

"See," Elizabeth said when Eames didn't respond, "You don't want them going into a dangerous profession."

"It's not that dangerous; I'd rather them be police officers than deep-sea fishermen—that's dangerous."

"Admit it. You wouldn't want either of them to be cops."

Eames looked at over at the kids in the living room and sighed, "I just want them to be happy."

Goren was at his desk by six in the morning, and for a while he was the only person in the MCS squad room. He read everything he could on Jonathan Waynesfield, or John Wayne.

He was a young and successful stockbroker with only unpaid parking tickets on his file. His phone records showed he had made calls to Romano, one of the dead stockbrokers.

Nichols exited the elevator and headed straight for Goren. "Goren," he said, "how is Alex doing?"

"Flesh wound," he said flatly. "She's shaken, but she'll be fine."

"She's tough," Nichols said as he pulled a chair next to Goren.

Goren continued to read. Nichols noticed Goren's jacket was wrinkled and his tie was stained with coffee—he was surprised by it.

"How are you holding up?" Nichols asked.

Goren didn't look up, "fine."

"Stevens and I were worried sick when we heard. When you see Alex, give her our best."

Goren looked up. Nichols looked tired, not his usual self. "You should tell her yourself. I'm sure she'd like that."

"I will," Nichols said. "So, want to compare notes?"

"Sure."

Nichols started: "Three stockbrokers were killed around midnight at the stock exchange. The young Erin Copland was killed around five the same morning not far from the exchange. Copland and one Stockbroker named Romano are old friends. Romano and John Wayne had been talking."

Nichols opened a file, "and Goren, you're going to love this, ballistics matched the gun that John Wayne used to shoot Alex with the gun that killed the brokers."

"Now we just need to find him."

"He could be anywhere right now. He has money to disappear and power to vanish."

"I don't think he's far. He has power here. According to his records, he has a team of lawyers at his disposal. He's the type who is used to getting what he wants." Goren stood and stretched. "You think he killed Copland, too?"

"I'm not sure," Nichols said. "It's seems like he would have used the gun. The plank of wood is messy, and John Wayne wears expensive suits."

Goren rubbed the back of his neck, "A gun is loud. He used the plank of wood to kill her without drawing immediate attention."

"He drew attention by shooting at cops," Nichols said. "I think he would have shot Copland. He's brazen."

Goren stuffed a hand in his coat pocket and ran his fingers along the edge of a folded paper. "Has anything turned up at John Wayne's apartment?"

"Which one?"

"He has more than one?"

"Yep. We spent all yesterday searching the one you were at. We thought it was odd that he had so little. I thought maybe he was a minimalist, but no, he has another apartment—with a lot more stuff."

"Anything there?"

"No, just started combing through it about two hours ago."

"I'd like to see it."

"That's where I'm going now. You can join me."

Goren pulled the paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. He sighed, "Yeah, I'll catch up with you. I need to run an errand first."

Nichols nodded, "Sure, I'll see you there."

Eames and Grace searched their home for the prescription that had yet to be filled. Her arm was throbbing and she was a bit out of breath from the pain. She remembered putting the small piece of paper in her pocket before leaving the hospital, but now it was nowhere to be found.

Her doorbell rang and Eames looked out the front window; Goren's car was parked out front.

"Hi," she said as she opened the door.

"Hi." He said with a bit of a smile. "I found your prescription in my coat pocket, so I had it filled." He held up a small bag.

"Oh, your jacket, that's where I put it. Thank you. I'm so happy you found it; I've been looking everywhere." She stepped aside and let him in. "It's killing me."

"Well, you where shot."

As Goren entered, carrying several grocery bags, Grace cautiously stood slightly behind Eames.

Eames, despite her pain, let a smile spread across her face. "Grace, this is my friend Bobby. We've known each other for a very long time."

Goren smiled down at her and said in remarkably sweet tone, "Hello, Grace. It's nice to see you."

"Hi," she said softly.

Goren was taken back to the first time he saw Grace, when she was just an infant. Still, he could hardly believe that Eames had a child.

Eames opened the prescription bottle and looked at it carefully, "this better cut the pain." Grace followed closely behind Eames as she went to the kitchen for a glass of water. Goren followed as well.

Eames pointed to the grocery bags in Goren's arms after swallowing her medication. "What's all that?"

He set them down on the counter and began pulling things out, "supplies. I had some time to kill while your prescription was being filled, so I got some things I thought you might need." He smiled, "First aid: bandages and stuff, and cereal, milk, orange juice, chocolate and dinner."

She watched him put the food away in awe. "You did this for us?"

"I had to stop by anyway to give you the prescription."

"Thank you, Bobby. It's very kind of you." She looked down at Grace who was still evaluating Goren—and the chocolate. "Cereal, orange juice and chocolate—you've made the Eames girls very happy."

Goren let a shy smile escape from his lips, "that's the best thing I've heard in a long time."