I do not own The Closer or any of its characters, or its settings.
This chapter has been edited from the original LJ posting due to 's policy on MA ratings. Feel free to check out the original at my Livejournal.
Chapter Fourteen
She'd seen it on the discovery channel, people who took such big risks that life was a big game of Operation. Sky divers, shark swimmers, those who lived in jungles and had pet spiders that with one bite could kill you.
She had never been that sort of adventurous. Had never left America, as much as she might have wanted to. When she was a kid she had watched the television and dreamed about going on holiday to Africa or Australia, being as hot as Los Angeles but with more exotic creatures than spoiled celebrities. As a teenager she had wanted to do the whole European experience, drink in British pubs, taste French cuisine, make love on Italian sheets. She had wanted to see the world on her Dad's bike. The closest she had ever come was a ride through America. Her bike, Sam's bike and the open road, stopping off for a little food, a lot of fuel and the occasional job until they reached Vegas where they got married - the riskiest thing she ever did.
That and leaving Sam.
Being on her bike was a risk, and when she had competed in races along the dusty roads in Nevada she knew that every turn could cost her her life. One race she had been going down at such a speed, trying to beat a cocky newbie to the punch. There was an accident up ahead due to some slow coaches on the track. She had swerved off, needing to get her bearings. The newbie had gone straight ahead into the mess, had caught his wheel on a piece of scrap metal and his bike had gone straight forward into one of the injured drivers. She had been a wreck for days after that, eventually seeking solace in Sam's bed and not leaving it for a week.
Racing had never been the same for her.
She wondered if Will knew what it was like to live dangerously, explicitly. Of course he had had affairs, but that seemed just the natural part of who he was, what he had grown up with, the country-club-you've-got-to-have-a-mistress-to-be-part-of-it sort of thing. He'd had affairs with two women; three if you counted someone he had made have an affair. She wondered if he had seen the world, if the Student Body President had gone travelling before meeting Jean at Yale. Or whether having children and being a father was the most risky thing he had ever done.
She thought about him, thought about what they could do when this was all over. Maybe they could go on a holiday across to Europe, taking the kids and Ben and Annie with them to a villa in France, or Italy. See the world like she had never got to do. Maybe she could teach Tommy how to ride properly, the tricks and the trade and watch the son she would never have follow in her racing footsteps.
It was interesting how despite not knowing how this week would end with her father, not knowing how things would end with her and Will and not knowing his kids that long at all that she had already started thinking of their lives together.
But then Tommy had written her a postcard from Harvard, saying that he missed her, his father and siblings and the bright sun of home, and she felt like part of a family.
X
Fritz watched his wife stare at the whiteboard she had bought for their spare bedroom. Not the cot he had had in mind, but it was something she loved probably even more than a baby. She had pinned the pictures of Michael and Sharon Raydor up, and the two victims. She was trying to make connections, but she was struggling.
"Need any help honey?" He wrapped an arm around her, looking at the board.
"No, I don't think you can. I'm trying to figure out what they've got in common, these two women but apart from the way they died I've got zip. Even pinning it on Raydor's father isn't making any sense, he's been dead for decades and there is no logical way that he knew the first woman, or the second!"
He watched her throw the pens away and sit on the end of their bed, pouting. The case was getting to her, less than the Stroh case had done but more than some. The old case had been a potential link to the killer, but that had just been a dead end. He hated seeing her distraught, especially when it was due to the job. He sat down next to her and let her rest her head on his shoulders.
"Where is it, the shooting I mean?"
"Downtown near that new club. Wrong side of town for Michael Raydor, why the hell was he there?"
"Hybrid neighbourhood, you got the new stuff that's raking in big bucks run by the same guys who run the streets. Maybe Raydor was looking at that, helping people out or scoring things off of them."
Brenda stood up and Fritz wished he hadn't said anything. She had been struck by some linking thought that was going to be no good for anyone, except maybe for the case. He stood up and continued to mimic her journey. That was when some of the crime scene shots caught his eye.
"Damn, this is Broker's neighbourhood," he muttered.
Brenda looked at him confused. "Broker? Who is Broker?"
Fritz wondered if the only time Brenda would pay attention to his job would be if she had a gang case, or one of their suspects crossed over. Or if she needed the FBI badge, as she had done on quite a few occasions. He sighed and went over to his briefcase where he pulled out a file and handed it to Brenda.
"Sam Broker. He's a gang leader, not a nice guy by any stretch of the imagination. His gang is not so much a gang but a cartel. They're smart criminals, they launder money in small doses so we don't see it, they keep away from drugs and always answer the FBI's questions."
Brenda looked at him curiously. "Apart from the money laundering, why have you got such a big old file on him?"
"Because people keep disappearing, and we don't know where they go."
Brenda took the file from him and looked at it. There were profiles and surveillance reports and newspaper clippings. The pictures matched the ones at the crime scene, and Brenda's mind started to race with thoughts and connections. "This is his territory?"
"Yeah. No other gang will touch it, Broker and his friends have been there for nearly thirty years, they're one of the oldest gangs in Los Angeles. And the most dangerous - they've had a lot of time to perfect things, a lot of time to put cops in their pockets. If anyone knows anything, it'll be Broker."
She looked at the picture staring back at her and wondered if this was a lead, or leading her to a whole heap of trouble.
X
He hated LAX. He hated the cold feel of the airport just as much as he hated the warm perfection of the passengers. He didn't like Los Angeles and the glossy image, but he got the same looks at Harvard, the same paltry glances in D.C. They all wanted to be glossy movie people with airbrushed looks and famous jobs drinking throughout the day and partying to the early hours of the morning. If he had expected to get something different at university he had been very much mistaken. The professionalism was still there, but there were still parties, still drinking, still co-eds with wet t-shirts who put out if you told them that you loved them.
Tommy Pope looked upon the city of Los Angeles with disdain, but then he viewed the world that way. Nothing was ever right, nothing was ever perfect. Everything was sordid, self destructive. Even the medicine they were teaching him was polluted with the self justification of surgeons and the Latin names they spoke instead of the usual, everyday terms was just another excuse for superiority.
He hitched a ride to his father's house, wanting to take a different route than a cab. He didn't say anything to the driver, and they seemed glad to drop him off close to his father's house. He was just happy to be out of the suffocating world that was all just a replay of the day before. Tommy couldn't return to D.C. to see his mother because it was the same there. Steve wanted to discuss the work he was doing, internships and essays. He wanted his son to be a great doctor like he was, maybe open up their own private practice one day.
What Steve always forgot was that his surname was Pope. And that he wasn't his son.
"Hello?" Tommy asked as he used the key his father had given him years ago to come in. The house was all locked up, not that he expected any different on a Thursday morning. He peered around doors and came in the kitchen, smiling at the fridge. There were tons of drawings covering it; Caitlin was getting an expert at people's faces. A brunette had joined the faces, and Tommy could see instantly who it was a drawing of.
"Well look who it is."
He turned around and saw Sharon. She hadn't changed much, not that she would have done since he saw her at Thanksgiving. Tommy wondered if he had got the postcard he had written her, he hoped she had. He walked over and gave her a hug, relishing the feeling of warmth, of safety. Tommy exhaled. His stormy head was calm now.
"What are you doing back here? I got your postcard, it was so sweet! I'm so glad to see you Tommy," she said, brushing one of his long strands of hair away from his face. Steve wanted him to cut it, he was refusing. It was his own private rebellion, and he was enjoying it.
"I wanted to come home for the weekend; I haven't talked to Dad in a while. Needed a break and it's too far to go home."
She looked at him, confused, watching every move he made as his fingers danced over surfaces, looking in the fridge for a cold drink. He popped the top of one and passed another to Sharon. She sat down and sipped, looking at him the whole time. "Harvard is on the other side of the country. It would take you barely any time to go home to D.C. What's up?"
"Dad at work?" He didn't want to talk about the poisonous atmosphere at home - he trusted Sharon but not with his whole world view, not yet.
"Will's taken Caitlin and Brendan to New York. I…I talked to him last night, they're having fun."
He was happy and he was sad with what Sharon told him. Happy because his father was getting to be the good father, to spend time with Caitlin and Brendan and take them on holidays. Sad because he had never done that with him. There had been the two week customary trip to wherever took their fancy, usually the coast and his father would spend most of that time playing golf or screwing the waitresses. His mother would be at the spa or reading, and he would be left alone.
"That's good, that's really good. Listen…don't tell him I was here, will you? I don't want him to worry."
"Why would he be worried? It's not as if you flew across the country to see your father for the weekend."
She rose to leave; the sound of post had hit the mat. His thumb traced the condensation forming on the drink, and Tommy looked at it, watching them drip onto the pads of his fingers, onto the table. He was hypnotised by the slow movement of the drops until Sharon hit him on the head with the mail.
"When I was your age I drove across the country with my boyfriend, we did some pretty reckless stuff. I didn't have anyone, he didn't have anyone, we just had each other. I didn't go to college until much later. I would say that you're not taking a risk, and that you're going the safe route and that I respect that. But Tommy, you're risking the world by following a path that scares you."
"I want to be a doctor, honestly."
She squeezed his shoulder, looking down at him with a mixture of pity and sympathy. "Tell the truth."
He looked up at her, the words choking on his tongue. He had been trying to avoid the words all this time, but he realised he had to vocalise them at some point:"I hate it. I hate medicine, I hate Harvard, I hate Steve. I hate it all."
His hands started to shake, and that's when Sharon hugged him. He had never been gladder of a person's company in all his life.
X
She expected to be taken to some high and dry warehouse where you could smell metal and blood in the air. Brenda did not expect to be taken to a high priced hotel, where the photo of Sam Broker became flesh in her mind. He was tall, with thick hair and a dark complexion. His suit was dark to match; the woman on his arm was the complete opposite - blonde, petite with blue eyes and long legs. She could feel Fritz' arm tightening on hers.
"That's his wife, Denise. His fourth wife. We can't find any trace of the other three."
It was not even midday and they were drinking hard liquor. They walked up the steps to the lounge area that was empty except for Broker and his associates, and Brenda felt a sense of anticlimax. Maybe she needed to watch less noir films and more true crime. It seemed that Broker and his friends owned the hotel, Fritz hadn't mentioned anything but the way they commanded the staff seemed to suggest they did.
"Can I help you with something?" He spoke with a Spanish tilt, and Brenda resisted the urge to groan. She knew Fritz spoke some Spanish so hopefully he would be able to keep up with what he was saying. She really needed to get around to learning that, she spoke Czech but not the second commonly used language in Los Angeles. She needed more European murders.
"Mr Broker my name is Agent Fritz Howard with the FBI and this is Deputy Chief Brenda Leigh Johnson of the LAPD. Mind if we ask you a few questions?"
"Be my guest. Take a seat."
The two people who had been in the seats opposite stood up and moved. Brenda took the seat warily, and Fritz tried not to be too possessive over her. She took the photos of the two women out of her purse and put them down in front of Broker.
"These two women were both murdered in your neighbourhood, the only difference being that there's nearly forty years difference between them. This woman was murdered in 1974, while this woman was murdered last week. I was wondering if you knew of anyone who might be able to help us, whether anyone in your…organisation has heard anything."
He took one of the photos and looked at the woman, and then the other. "Why is the FBI and the woman in charge of Major Crimes - I do know who you are Chief Johnson - interested in these two women?"
Brenda pulled the last photograph out of her purse. "The original shooting, a police officer was framed for the murder. We want to know why he was there in the first place and why someone would want to frame him. Despite that, two women were still murdered, and their killer or killers have to face the justice system."
"I see. May I look at the photo of the officer - the one in your hand?" Brenda reluctantly gave him the photo of Michael Raydor. Surprisingly, Broker's face bloomed at the sight of the photograph. His fingers traced the photo with reverence, unlike the regard he had given the two murdered women.
"You know him?"
Broker chuckled. "Yeah, I knew Mickey Raydor. He lived down the block from me back in New York, he was a good guy."
"Then you must know his daughter Sharon."
Broker looked up like he had been given an electric shock. His smile grew wistful, sad. "Haven't seen her for decades, always wondered what happened to her. Mickey's death screwed her up a little."
Brenda couldn't repress the snort, and Fritz gave her a warning look. If Broker had noticed their little exchange, he didn't say anything about it. He was too busy staring at the photograph of Mickey Raydor. "I'll ask around, get back to you. I'm always willing to help the LAPD."
"Thank you very much for your time."
Fritz hauled her out of there as quick as they could. Broker's gaze was piercing, he felt dangerous to her. With her job she visited most of the low lives of the city in the interview room, on her turf. Meeting them on their turf was always a risk, and it always made her feel vulnerable. Like a mouse heading for a trap, not knowing where they lay.
It was an underestimate to say that Sam Broker worried her.
X
"It's beautiful; I don't think I've ever seen anything so…captivating."
Sharon chuckled as she watched Tommy work over her bike, examining every catch, ever shine in the metal. She'd finally managed to get it back to full working order after her minor crash, and it was looking as beautiful as the day her father had first bought it. She could see herself like a mirror in Tommy, a young Sharon examining the bike with awe, the possibilities and the openness. Tommy needed that openness, that wide vast space that she had been given openly.
"You want to ride it?"
"Can I?"
"Passenger only till I see a bike licence," Sharon winked.
She pulled down the garage door and made sure everything was locked up. She threw him a helmet and they got on the bike together, Tommy wobbling a little until he adjusted to it. Sharon started the bike and sped away out of her drive and down onto the streets of Los Angeles. She remembered that Will had still not been with her on a ride: when he got back she would force him onto the bike. She wanted to feel free with him.
They drove through busy streets until they reached the coast and they slowed down to admire the ocean. As a child her father would put her up front and they would see the beach in the cold weather through a visor. She began to shake a little as she thought about her father and the damages that Brenda Leigh Johnson was making to his memory. A little pressure from Tommy put her on the straight and narrow again, and they continued to feel the wind whip against their faces.
A thought crossed Sharon's mind as they moved back into the city. She made a turn and they headed towards the bar that Jimmy had dragged her to, and the murder scene of both women. They parked the bike and Sharon made sure that the lock was on tight. She rarely parked the bike, so she was worried about it being stolen. It was her father, essentially, encased in metal.
"What are we doing Sharon?" Tommy asked.
"Major Crimes are investigating a case that crosses over with FID. I just wanted to check out the scene for myself."
There was still tape up, and Sharon could see people milling around, not sure what had gone on. There was a small newsagent in the corner, with a man who looked around her father's age. Telling Tommy to stay where he was, Sharon walked over to the man and pulled out her wallet and the picture of her father.
"Excuse me, do you know this man?"
"He missin'?"
"No, he's….he's dead. I just want to know what happened to him. He was around here around 1974."
"A long time to be looking for the truth."
"Not for a daughter," Sharon announced, and the man looked up, smiling slightly at the woman in front of her. She could see family pictures in the little shack, and he followed her gaze. He took the photo of her father and tapped it slightly.
"I don't know anything, apart from that he was trying to help."
"Help what?" Her breath was catching in her throat, she wasn't sure if she was going to like what the man said to her about her father. But she had to hear it.
"Mickey knew some of the race boys, he was a racer y'see. Someone told him that there was trouble in these parts, extortion. He wanted to fix it. He was a cop as well, although not a lot of people knew it. Son of a bitch got mixed up with the wrong people. Not a lot of people around here try and help, you remember the ones who do" he explained, handing her back the photo.
Sharon sighed. "Thank you."
Wrapping her arms around herself, Sharon walked back over to Tommy, who was looking at the crime scene tape with interest. Tommy reminded her of a very young Andy Flynn, and that made her smile. He saw she had returned and gave her a nod. "You find out what you need?"
"Yeah, I did. The FID link is pointless; the guy was trying to do his job and got caught up in a gang war. Guess it's up to Major Crimes now."
They walked back over to the bike, and Sharon unlocked the chain. She felt lighter in herself, knowing that her father wasn't involved in something darker. Her memory of him was still intact. But then there was the issue of the extortion in the first place, and the complications with that. As she gazed over to the crime scene again, her heart started to pound in her ears as she remembered whose territory this was. Years of FID had made her forget the specifics of gang warfare.
"Shit!"
"Sharon?"
Her badge was in her bag, her bike easily recognisable. She wheeled it slowly into the darkness, followed by Tommy. She motioned for him to keep quiet as she watched the man examine the crime scene, look at the sky and the surrounding area. Damn it, she should have kept her eyes wide open.
"Who is he Sharon?"
She tried to breathe calmly. "His name is Sam Broker. He runs a high level cartel in the city, I forgot that this was his territory; he's spread all over now. But it would make no sense for it to be him, the foundations were there but Broker didn't get started until 1980."
Sharon was confused - she had the pieces but she couldn't make them fit into anything resembling the big picture, or even a little one. She knew Tommy wouldn't understand, but she knew someone who would. Taking out her phone, Sharon sent a text and waited until Broker left before kick starting the bike and driving away. The ride home was quiet and slow, and she knew that Tommy could feel the tension in her. She dropped him at his house before returning to her own, her head a flush with questions and her heart racing.
Her flight wasn't until tomorrow night, but she wasn't sure she could wait that long. She needed to be at her father's grave for Saturday, and the sooner the case was dealt with, the better she would feel.
Her theories could crack the case wide open and she could finally put this behind her. Sharon needed to talk to the one member of Major Crimes she trusted.
Her phone rang. Andy was meeting her in an hour.
X
When he came up to her in the police bar, she was nursing a drink. Whiskey and coke, not her favourite drink but one she certainly could drink. There was a glass of water waiting for him when he sat down, and he did without snark, without reservation. His demeanour had changed around her, and she wasn't sure why. There was no laughing, no snide comments. This Andy was empty.
"Hey."
"Small talk. Didn't know you did small talk." He shook his head and took a sip of his drink. She didn't even look at hers; it was just something to hold in her hand.
"I went and talked to some people about the case today. Apparently Mickey Raydor was trying to help out some people with extortion - maybe he got caught in a crossfire. It wouldn't have been Broker's group of idiots, it's definitely someone else."
Andy put down his glass and looked at her. She didn't like what she saw, she wondered if he was drinking again. "You said Mickey Raydor. He's your Dad, Sharon, not someone you can remove yourself from. However hard you try."
Maybe it was a mistake to turn to Andy, maybe it wasn't. She pushed over her notes and smiled at him. No one else would take them, and it was an idea that her gut was saying was right. "Andy, once upon a time we were friends. Please do this for me."
"I didn't know your father was dead."
"Yeah, he died when I was fifteen. I went into foster care with a couple who were already fostering another teenager. That's how I met Ben. It's not important, this is important."
Andy took the notes and looked over them. Maybe he was upset that they had been close and she had not told him of her father's passing. She hadn't told anyone about it, she hadn't even told Will the details. "The Chief already met Sam Broker today, she's hoping he can come up with something, but this may be the lead we need. We tried to pin it on you or your father, but evidence wouldn't back it up."
Sharon nodded, and they sat each nursing a drink for a moment until she walked away. She had done what she had to do; now she had somewhere else to be. Sharon had changed the tickets; her flight was now leaving tonight. Her bag was in the back seat and she drove to Will's house as quick as she could. Tommy answered the door, looking out of place in his father's home. With his family he felt somewhat at rest there, on his own he was just a stranger in an empty house.
"Hey - you got your flight changed?"
Sharon smiled. "I did. Could you drive me to the airport?"
"Yeah sure," Tommy agreed and locked up the house. They drove in silence until they reached the airport and Sharon got out of the car, reaching over to grab her bag. Tommy grinned at her, thinking about her father's face. "You want me to keep it at ours and pick you guys up on Sunday?"
Sharon shook her head. "Keys are in the ignition, there's some money in the back and some snacks too. Meet us in New York, drive there. You get started now; we'll see you Saturday afternoon. You need some time to think in the quiet, Tommy. Enjoy the drive"
"You'll have to take the car back rather than flying, not a good way to end the weekend"
As she turned around with her bag, Sharon grinned at the young man who had never been given a chance, or a choice. She had the bike. "Keep it."
The flight wasn't as long as she thought it would be, but it was long enough for her to get jittery. As she stepped down from the plane she could feel the New York chill, so different from the warmth of Los Angeles. But New York was always bitterly cold this time of year, and it wasn't always due to the weather. In her pocket were the details of Will's hotel room, and she took a cab to the city centre. It always amazed her how similar and different the cities were, although she always seemed to be running away from one of them.
She double checked the room number and headed up, her body adjusting to New York. Her voice was already slipping a little into the worn tones she had used as a teenager. The lift finally stopped on his floor and she stepped out. She had planned to give him a call to let her know she was in New York on the Saturday and maybe they could meet up on the Sunday. But she needed him to collapse against, surrender to.
They had agreed to go slow, but since divorcing Sam she had never made any true risks. She needed to start. As she knocked on the door and opened it to his beaming smile, she knew she had played her cards right.
Brendan shook his head as he watched Sharon and his father kiss at the door.