Office of Anita Van Buren
Manhattan Homicide
9 July
Lieutenant Van Buren blew the steam from her morning mug of precinct coffee.
We're five days into this case… One P.P. is calling every three hours for updates… Major Case is starting to make noises again… not to mention the media….
She glanced down at her desk, where that day's newspaper lay. "Day Five—Zero Arrests" was printed over large photos of Tierney and White; smaller photos of Weston and Bashir filled out the page.
Fontana and Green better have something soon… like right now….
They were at her door, both holding manila folders and their own coffee mugs. She waved them in and pointed to the two side chairs in front oh her desk.
You guys look beat—lack of sleep, lack of progress, lack of faith in you from the rest of the squad… I've seen the way you're being treated… soon as I find out who heaped your desks with copies of this front page, someone getting a week's suspension…
Neither detective mentioned the harassment or the pressure while they settled into the chairs and arranged their notes for the morning report.
"The files on Dominick Anacacis could have been written with quill pens for all the current info they had," Joe told her. "The last entry was a formal notice that Anacacis had been released from Fishkill Correctional Facility in June of 2001 after doing three of a five-year sentence for trafficking in narcotics."
"Joe and me checked with people we know in Brooklyn Narcotics," Ed said. "Seems Anacacis went back to Santa Cruz del Seibo—that's his home town in the Dominican Republic—in December of 2001."
"When did he come back to the city?" she asked.
Ed flipped a page of his notes. "He didn't—at least, not under his real name. Brooklyn Narcotics told us that they started getting reports of a new major player in early 2006. All they got on him is a street name: 'Double-Dom.' All his products are marked with two capital Ds."
"The Dominican Republic is a major transit hub for cocaine, heroin, and ecstasy, " Joe noted as he scanned his notes. "We figure Anacacis took what he learned about the retail end of the business here and used it to establish a new distribution system."
"So you think Dominick Anacacis from the Dominican Republic is Double-Dom," Van Buren said. "Sounds plausible. Narcotics ever bust this Double-Dom?"
Fontana closed his folder and removed his reading glasses. "Nope. The guy's slipperier than bin Laden and not much better looking."
"You got his photo?"
Joe gave her a photo of a short, wiry man in his early thirties: dark skin, black hair, dark eyes. He was wearing a prison coverall with his name and the number assigned to him at FCF.
"This is from 2001," Joe told her. "There's nothing more recent."
Ed put his mug on her desk so he could shuffle through his papers.
"We do have a possible link to him," he said as he handed over a DMV photo. "Sam Hasan, twenty-one, immigrated from Pakistan with his family when he was six. His family is related to the Bashirs and he works for them at the Lucky Food Store. We brought him in first thing this morning after his shift."
"Why?"
"Because my partner and I needed a night's sleep in our own beds and a crack at a civilized bathroom," Fontana informed her. "I don't mind working 24/7 on this case, but Sing Sing provides felons better showers than…."
Van Buren shook her head at him. He blinked at her for a moment then the light dawned.
"You want to know why we brought Hasan in, not why we waited until this morning?"
Ed muffled a chuckle. Van Buren smiled and pointed at his coffee mug.
"You're a bit slow this morning, detective. Better get another cup before you do any heavy thinking."
Fontana drew himself up and shrugged off her amusement.
"Well, Hasan has been working at the store for only two weeks. Before that, he lived and worked near Coney Island. Neighbors there say he was dealing Double-Dom product out of his apartment, but he moved without telling anyone. Mrs. Bashir told us he said he wanted go to California, but didn't have enough money."
Van Buren held up the DMV photo.
"Okay, so maybe Hasan is tied to Anacacis, but how does Jason Meade fit into this?"
Joe and Ed exchanged worried glances.
I guess I just found the giant hole in your theory of the crime… you guys better have something to patch it with….
"Well," Ed drew out the word to show how speculative the answer was, "According to Narcotics, Anacacis had high-priced tastes, especially in firearms, and he liked his sex partners young, male, and completely obedient. Brandon Stone was found in one of his crack houses, where he tried to kill a cop with a pricey Italian handgun. Stone never told anyone why he was there or who he'd been living with."
Van Buren waited for something more substantial from Green. When he said nothing more, she folded her arms on her desk and leaned towards him.
"That's it?"
At least they got the good grace to look sheepish about this….
"Lieu," Ed said, "we know it's a stretch, but we think Brandon was Anacacis'… Joe, what was that word you used?"
"Catamite," Joe replied. "It's a young boy used for sex. The word derives from Ganymede, cup-bearer and sex toy of the Greek god Zeus."
Van Buren rolled her eyes at his show of erudition.
"The stuff you know, Fontana…."
The older man attempted a smug smile, but days of overwork weighed it down. Ed cleared his throat.
"Anyway, we're thinking Jason Meade is Anacacis' current catamite. We don't exactly know how he got Meade—maybe he placed an order for a young boy before he left for El Seibo. If you have enough money, you can buy anything—even a four-year-old."
"Okay, so you think this Hasan guy is running from Double-Dom and that Jason Meade was sent to the bodega to warn or kill him?"
Ed let out a long sigh.
"That we can't prove—"
"We can't prove it yet," Joe added. "But, do you have another reason why he'd be carrying a Beretta 93R? If the kid picked up a piece on the streets, it wouldn't be a sixteen thousand dollar weapon."
"That doesn't explain why Meade killed four people who weren't Hasan?"
Joe held his hands out and shrugged.
"Could be, when Meade didn't find Hasan at the store, he decided that killing his relative and boss was just as good. Fred and Tammy and Weston were the icing on the cake, so to speak."
Van Buren took a long sip of her coffee while she considered their theory.
There are parallels between Brandon Stone and Jason Meade, but not enough to convince a judge or the D.A.… be much better if we could tie either kid directly to Anacacis….
"You said Brandon Stone was at Kirby. You planning to talk to him?"
Joe nodded. "We have an appointment with his shrink later this morning. If he gives the okay, maybe Brandon will fill us in on his past."
"And if he can't or won't…?"
Both men hissed breaths through clenched teeth.
Oh-oh….
"This case is twisted enough," she admonished them. "What have you cooked up now?"
Ed pointed at his partner. "This one is Joe's idea."
"And it's a good one," Fontana insisted. "I asked COP SHOT to send its public-address van through the Watson Avenue area in Brooklyn and any other areas where Double-Dom is distributing his product. The reward for Fred and Tammy's killer is up to $50,000—ten thou from COP SHOT, twenty-five from the benevolent associations and the rest from private citizens. That kind of money might flush out someone who knows where Anacacis and Meade are hanging their hats."
Van Buren pursed her lips and glared at the older detective.
COP SHOT… tip line offering a reward whenever a police officer gets shot… I'd rather live in a world where people didn't need a cash reward for reporting a murderer… but driving around broadcasting a $50,000 reward will get results… and the attention of every crackpot in Brooklyn….
"You know their tip line going to be flooding with false alarms."
Fontana's smile barely twitched his moustache. "If one of them leads us to Meade, it's worth it. Besides, I promised to work answering phones tonight; it's the least I can do to help with the flood."
To his right, Ed shifted in his chair then rocked his right hand back and forth, pointing his index finger at her then at himself. Van Buren nodded.
"That's real thoughtful of you, Fontana. Why don't you get started with Hasan? I need to talk to your partner about the next case update with the brass."
"Sure thing, ma'am."
As soon as the door closed behind him, Ed slid his chair closer to her desk.
"Lieu, Joe isn't volunteering tonight to just to be nice—"
"I figured that. Your partner isn't the Boy Scout type."
He held his hands open as though he were trying to hand off the problem, not describe it.
"Joe's not sleeping. He's running on coffee and not much more. If he smoked, he'd be at a carton a day. I've never seen him on edge before, but right now, he's like a strung-out ballet dancer teetering on one toe trying not to fall."
Fontana in a tutu... scenic, Ed—real scenic....
Aloud, she asked, "His nerves related to the case or to this Judith woman?
"Judith, I think. It's been a week since he handed her all his personal data and all she's done is leave messages on his phone. He's stopped telling me that she's a done deal. He's stopped talking about her all together."
The flash of anger that ran through her surprised Anita.
How dare she? I know Fontana's got his problems, but no one disrespects one of my people like that....
She took a sip of now-tepid coffee and forced the anger aside.
Fontana's got me rooting for him now... I know he's a dog, but it never seems to matter....
"It's been a bad week for everyone, Ed," she reminded him. "More likely, they really are misconnecting. I'll remind Joe that he needs to keep his head in this investigation and let all this Judith stuff settle out in its own time."
"Thanks, Lieu."
He grabbed his notes and mug and stood up. Van Buren aimed a finger at him.
"That message goes for you, too. I told you this case was twisted and the twisted ones can trip you up good. Don't let it happen, Ed—not to you or your partner."
The solemn gravity in his eyes told her the message had been received. She accompanied him from the office, parting ways when he headed to the interrogation room. Her own path took her to Tim Bradley's desk.
"A word to the wise, detective," she told the sandy-haired man. "The part-time jobs allowed for NYPD personnel don't include paperboy."
His startled twitch proved she'd caught her culprit.
"Throw all those papers away," she said sternly, "and see me in my office."
Kirby Forensic Psychiatric Center
Ward Island, NY
9 July
Fontana and Green were outside the day room of Ward 3-East at Kirby Forensic Psychiatric Center, the Criminal Justice Department's maximum security hospital on Ward Island.
I bet Joe feels naked right now….
Security rules required them to leave their hardware and their neckties outside the ward...
... in case one of the inmates decides to strangle us... Joe tried to pocket that blue flowered tie of his… didn't work… they locked up with his .38….
The day room itself was brighter and more cheerful than Ed had expected. Posters of kittens, puppy dogs, and a clutch of yellow ducklings hung on the walls and a family of meerkats scampered across the screen of the TV in the corner. Two men in jeans and t-shirts were watching the meerkats while another slept in a chair by them, his head tipped back to allowed for maximum snoring. A fourth man sat a table working a crossword puzzle; across from him, an older man hummed tunelessly as he stared into space.
I remember him... Jake Whitted... blinded a neighbor lady with a kitchen fork, then beat her to death... he told Lennie she was watching him shower via her microwave oven....
Two security staffers, men dressed in KFPC T-shirts and slacks, stood against the wall and observed the men in the room.
But we're not here for Whitted or the rest of them... it's the guy at the window that we need... the skinny kid with the shaggy blond hair... according to his shrink, Brandon Stone spends every day standing there....
"According to his records, neither the police nor CPS investigators learned where Brandon Stone came from or why he was in that crack house on the night of the twenty-ninth of May. He appeared at least eighteen months younger than his chronological age of twelve and he was mildly malnourished. He could read only at a third grade level and showed signs of long-term physical and sexual abuse, but was otherwise physically healthy. Emotionally—well, that's another story."
The info came from Dr. Daniel Homer, the forensic psychologist assigned to this ward. Dr. Homer had the look of a seagull thanks to his gray shirt, black pants and white hair.
And his hobby is painting seascapes... maybe, under those Dockers, his knees bend backwards like a bird....
Dr. Homer continued to fill them in, unaware of Green's curiosity about his joints.
"A psychological evaluation done when he was found showed Brandon to have Antisocial Personality Disorder, a catchall diagnosis misapplied in this case. Brandon wasn't completely unmindful of the needs and wants of others; he was focused only on the needs and wants of one person."
"Himself?" Green asked.
"No. Someone Brandon calls 'Chief'. To Brandon, Chief is the source of everything Brandon needs. Were I the one diagnosing Brandon back when he first was found, I'd call his condition Stockholm Syndrome, not APD."
"Did Brandon ever identify who this Chief was?" Green asked.
Dr. Homer shook his head. "No, and he did not react to photos of likely candidates."
"Doctor," Fontana said, "what brought Brandon to Kirby?"
"It's a sad story—typical in many respects of everyone here. When they couldn't locate Brandon's family, CFS tried several foster placements, all failures. Brandon attacked one family's cat for leaving a hairball by his shoes. Another time, he held a toddler up by the throat for getting between him and the TV. CFS then placed him in a group home, where he assaulted a house parent and several residents for telling him what to do. That got him placed in Crossroads Juvenile Center, from which he was released when he turned eighteen."
"What?" Ed asked. "No half-way placement?"
Dr. Homer sneered at the suggestion.
"The Department of Juvenile Justice, in its not-so-infinite wisdom, said 'You're an adult now and you haven't hurt anyone recently so bye-bye, Brandon'. Needless to say, he was back in custody within days—this time for beating up a prostitute who insisted on payment. Brandon thought he deserved a freebie to celebrate his release, so to speak."
Fontana hooked a thumb at the building visible through the window where Brandon was, a building similar to Kirby except for its lack of razor-wire fencing.
"That got him sent to Manhattan Psych?"
"Yes. Brandon's refusal to control his behavior continued there. When an older inmate tried to befriend him, Brandon decided he was trying to take Chief's place in his life. He beat the man's head against a door jamb until he killed him. The jury returned a verdict of 'Not Guilty by reason of mental defect or insanity' and Brandon ended up on my patient list."
Ed asked, "Have you been able to help him any?"
"No, not a bit. According to Brandon, his only problem is that he is not with Chief. When Chief returns, all will be perfect. Until then, Brandon doesn't have to obey anyone because only Chief can tell him what to do."
"That must make him difficult to control."
Dr. Homer nodded. "One of the many reasons the staff here have the most dangerous job in the state. We provide our inmates counseling, appropriate drug therapies, and a secure environment, but we can't predict when someone will become violent or who will be attacked. Should one of these men try to make physical contact with you—shake your hand or hug you, step away from him. It's safer than way."
Ed edged back from the door.
Damn right I'll keep away from these guys... I like my eyes right where they belong....
Dr. Homer nodded at the nearer of the two security staff. The man walked over to the window where Brandon was standing.
"You have company, Brandon," he said. "Let's go see them."
Brandon turned his head to look at the day room door. His slack jaw and glazed eyes warned the detectives that his particular therapy included strong drugs.
"Not Chief. Not going."
Brandon turned back to the view through the barred window.
"I can have Mike insist," Dr. Homer whispered, "but Brandon will cause a scene."
Ed caught his partner's attention and shook his head. Joe's tight frown signaled his agreement.
"It's not worth it, doc," Joe told him. "Thank you anyway, but he won't be any help to us."
In the elevator, on their way down to Security, Ed leafed through the data Dr. Homer had given them on Stockholm Syndrome.
"This calls it a 'successful mechanism for coping with certain psychologically traumatic situations.' Don't seem that successful to me."
"Maybe the shrinks define success as not being dead," Joe mused. "What else does say?"
Ed read from the article, "'Situations conducive to Stockholm Syndrome have three indicators. First is a grossly uneven power relationship with the captor having complete control over the victim. Second is the perception of kindness from the captor, although the 'kindness' may only be permission to live and endure more abuse. Third is an instinct for self-preservation on the part of the prisoner. Given the right circumstances, only a few days are needed for the syndrome to set in, and its effects can last for years after the victim is released from his captor's control.'"
The elevator halted at the ground floor. They collected their weapons, handcuffs, and ties from the security desk. Neither said anything more about the case until they were in the parking lot. The bright sunshine and summer breeze off the river did little to cheer their moods.
Ed leaned against the fender and skimmed the rest of the article while Joe knotted his tie.
"Seems like kids are more susceptible to this," Ed commented, his finger pointing at a paragraph on the page before him. "This says that children who are loved by their families expect to be accepted and loved by others. Their need acts in the same way as self-preservation does for an adult."
He looked over at his partner. "That means Brandon would do anything to get and keep Chief's love..."
"...even if that 'love' consisted of daily abuse with only random crumbs of affection tossed his way," Joe finished the thought. "Which means Jason Meade will be just as loyal and just as twisted."
"Yeah. Sounds like our only hope of finding him is if someone hates Double-Dom enough to turn him in."
Joe beamed smugly at him.
"That's why we're sending COP SHOT to Brooklyn. That fifty thousand ought to buy someone's disloyalty. "
His phone trilled.
"That's Van Buren," Ed said. "One P.P. called for their briefing and she's passing their crap onto us."
Joe pulled the ringing phone from his pocket and held it out to his partner.
"You're primary. Want to answer it?"
Ed stepped back and held up both hands. "Your phone, your crap."
"Thanks, pal" Joe groused as he thumbed the button and held the phone to his face. "Fontana."
To Ed's amazement, Joe froze, his jaw slack and his eyes wide.
"Uh… hello, Judith. How are you?"
No hand gestures, no grin... something's wrong.…
Ed slid his hands in his pockets and leaned back against the car to listen. Thirty seconds of non-committals gave him no clue how the conversation was going.
"Okay… yeah… sure… okay…I can see that…."
Maybe he's practicing for being hen-pecked….
Ed stifled a laugh just as Joe jerked as though brushed with a high-voltage wire.
"That's… that's… thing is, our best lead just turned out to be a medicated nutcase. Can I call you later? How late? Okay… until then… um… I love you—yeah."
Joe thumbed the 'end' button then threw his head back and blew out a long explosive breath. Ed stepped in front of him and raised an eyebrow at his partner.
"Are congratulations are in order yet?"
Joe blinked twice then forced a grin. "Yeah, yeah—they are. Told you it was a done deal...."
Sure, bro… that's why you're shaking so hard….
"I just wasn't expecting the news today—at least, not right this minute."
"S'okay; I understand."
I understand you were scared she'd say 'Hell, no!'....
"So you finally got the girl of your dreams?"
The smile drained from his partner's face.
"Don't mention dreams."
Joe slumped against the Taurus next to Ed.
"I've been dreaming the security tape from the Lucky Food Store—over and over, every night. Judith is always Tammy; I'm always Fred. Sometimes, you're Weston; Judith dies, then you, and I'm last. Sometimes, it's—you remember Jeremy Miller?"
"Yeah—kid who blew his brains out in that park near Children's Healing Place."
Joe's head jerked up and down. "First time this happened, he was Weston. Last night, I dreamt I took Judith back to Chicago and my dad was Weston. Same dream, same result—only difference from the tape is the location and who dies."
Ed winced at the thought of sleep, their only respite from this case, being haunted by yet more dying.
"There's some heavy shit on that tape, Joe. You watched it what—six times?"
"Seven, but who's counting?"
"Your brain needs time to process it. That's not the kind of shit you can just blow off."
Joe waved that idea away with a flip of his hand.
"I'm fine with the tape. It's seeing Judith, you, my family dying over and over. It's like a bad TV show I have to watch every night."
Ed nodded in agreement while he checked how 'fine' Joe really was.
Eyes blood-shot and bleary... breathing just a bit fast... you're not handling this as well as you want me to think... 'course, I'm not sleeping all that good myself... maybe it's from worry about Judith—you'd never admit you could be wrong about something or that some woman could turn you down....
He made a mental note to be more forthright with his partner if he started acting odd again then he grabbed the passenger's door handle.
"Then let's get going. We'll get those drug buy locations Hasan gave us to COP SHOT and see what happens. Sooner this is wrapped up, sooner you can spend some time with a living Judith."
Joe reached into his pants pocket for the keys.
"Sounds good to me, although first things first. I had some earrings made for Judith and I want to get them delivered to her this afternoon. We'll take care of that on the way back to the precinct."
SVU Squadroom
9 July
The lead that Otten and Sofarelli were checking out at the beginning of their shift had come from Brad Reed, one of Fontana's snitches. Reed had seen a flyer on a bulletin board in a Hudson University dorm while delivering a lunch order of pizza; the flyer advertised an aquamarine pendant similar to a custom-made necklace stolen by the Dykeman rapist. Reed had left the flyer where he found it, but he had given Otten the first name and phone number from the rip-off tabs on its lower edge.
That flyer, now in a signed and sealed bag in the precinct's evidence locker, and its name and phone number had led the detectives to Steven Jay Barnett of 1540 Pelham Parkway South in the Bronx. According to his DMV data, he fit the composition description of the Dykeman rapist. Barnett didn't reside near Dykeman Street, but Novak and Sofarelli were able to convince a judge to sign a warrant to search his apartment and, if other stolen merchandise was found, to bring him in.
"So," Judith was telling Olivia as they sat at the table in the upstairs lounge, "Barnett sees the warrant and tries to bolt past Couch through the front door."
Olivia paused with her coffee mug almost to her lips.
"Really? Most guys head for the fire escape."
"Not Barnett and for a very good reason; his bedroom was filled with loot: portable stereos, jewelry cases, change purses, wallets—all of it matching items taken from the break-ins around Dykeman Street."
"So you got him. Good job."
Judith winced at the praise as though it might jinx their case.
"Maybe not. Barnett claims everything belongs to a roommate. His neighbors say he has been living alone for since April. I ran him by the lab for a DNA swab before bringing him in. Warner promised to rush the results to us."
Olivia frowned. "Did Barnett volunteer it?"
The older woman nodded. "Unfortunately, we can't get the fingerprint report from the stolen items yet. The bus shooting on Webster is ahead of us; I pulled every string I know of, but it takes a long time to dust and match a city bus."
She sighed, then said, "If Barnett's swab clears him, then we'll have to break his story about the roommate. Couch stayed behind to catalogue the stolen items; as soon as he gets here, we'll tackle Barnett."
Olivia raised her mug in salute. "Still sounds like the end is in sight."
Judith touched her coffee mug to Olivia's, a move that brought her right hand level with Olivia's eyes.
You've moved your wedding ring… I know you're not dating… must be an anniversary thing….
"I can't wait to get that giant video screen away from my desk," Judith said. "It drew too much attention while we were spinning our wheels on this."
She then glanced around the lounge then up the stairs to the next floor before twisting in her chair to see the squadroom below them.
"Speaking of attention—where is everyone?"
Olivia shrugged to cover her discomfort at the question.
Munch is on the roof, Elliot is in the weight room and Fin—well, he phoned in to say if I needed him to call… I'm still trying to figure out how to explain this to Cragen… and I'd better change the subject before you ask why, too... quick, think of something—coffee? Clothes? Hairstyles? Wait....don't you usually wear pearls in your ears?
She peered at Judith's left ear.
Opal, I think...dark blue with flecks of vivid green, cut into half-inch ovals... lovely mountings... someone paid a pretty penny for those... not something Judith would choose for herself... they're a bit flashy....
"Your earrings are lovely."
Judith's head jerked up and her eyes went wide.
"Oh," she said, "yes—earrings. I got them today."
The odd way Judith's gaze was aimed at Olivia without making eye contact caught Olivia's curiosity. She put her elbows on the table and leaned forward.
"You treated yourself? Found something you couldn't resist?"
Olivia raised an eyebrow at Otten and watched as the woman's lips twitched ever so slightly.
Odd... she acts like she's lying... if this were an interrogation, this is where she would try to throw me off the trail….
"I'm not much for shopping," Judith replied. "If I could, I'd have a personal assistant like my parents. Louisa not only runs their errands, she also does light housekeeping, and makes sure they both take their pills. Artistic types just don't seem to remember important things like pills."
Judith sipped her coffee. Olivia raised her head and glared her.
Why are you acting like you need to pull one over on me?
She tapped the table in front of Judith to get her attention.
One more chance before I get mad....
"That's interesting, but I asked about your earrings."
"They're a mattan," Judith replied, dismissing the earrings with a shrug. "Want some fresh coffee?"
She grabbed her mug and stood up. Olivia held out her mug to accept the polite offer then she snatched it back.
Son of a bitch! I almost fell for it….
Benson rose from his chair in a slow motion that was part emphasis, part threat.
"You and I discussed this after the Chestnut fiasco, remember?" she said, anger putting an edge on her words. "Crap like this belongs in Interrogation—not between you and me. Tell me what is going on and don't try blaming it on funerals or your mother's birthday party tomorrow night."
Under the intense scrutiny of Benson in full hard-ass mode, Otten's frown dissolved into a deep sigh.
"Okay," she said, "Do you want the short version or the one with the eight-by-ten color photos with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back?"
"How about no more smoke-screens?" Olivia demanded, her attention on spotting any further evasions.
Judith accepted the scrutiny with a glare and a hard swallow then she said, "A week ago, Joe Fontana proposed to me."
Olivia's coffee mug slid through fingers made numb with shock to hit the table with a thud.
"You've got to be kidding. Not Smugtana."
Judith drew herself tall in her seat.
"You going to listen or what?"
She told Olivia about her date at the Veneto Club and how Fontana had tried to sweep her off her feet and under a huppah.
"Huh?"
"Marriage canopy," the older woman explained. "We don't go to the altar for weddings; we go under a canopy, a huppah.
Judith next told Olivia that, to prove he was not scamming her, Fontana had handed over his financials, the property records for his condo, the P&L and balance sheet for his brother's construction company, his personal 1040s for the past five years, a list of his stock holdings, ...
"So he isn't on the take?"
"I really hate to disappoint you, but no—he's not."
… a copy of his medical records and a leather Filofax. In it, Judith found the names, phone numbers, and the sexual and lingerie preferences of dozens and dozens of women, including Tamara Landis, Cammie Landis-Otten's mother.
Olivia snorted coffee at the news.
That will make Otten family gatherings even more special....
Judith then informed Olivia that detectives from Chicago's Wentworth Area homicide squad and his family's parish priest confirmed his story.
"At that point," Judith continued, "I seriously considered accepting. It was very flattering to have a handsome man offer to be my Prince Charming."
Olivia clenched her teeth to keep from laughing.
"Oh, come on…."
"Oh, I didn't stay infatuated for long," Judith assured her. "I knew that he is disliked by everyone I work with, and hated by Cammie and Derek. I'd be ignoring the rules David and I set for our sons about dating and choosing Jewish wives. I also would be joining a line of women that stretches the length of Manhattan—not to mention the Bronx, Chicago, northern Italy, and who knows where else."
Judith checked inside her empty mug as though hoping coffee had magically appeared for her to drink.
"And," she continued, "I had no guarantee that he wouldn't get bored and leave. Joe has had forty years of sowing wild oats. I doubted he's going to be happy with oatmeal for the rest of his life."
Olivia winced at the harsh way Judith described herself.
"Sounds like you made the right decision."
"That's what I thought," Judith replied. "I figured he deserved to get the news in person so I made arrangements to meet Joe after end-of-shift on the Fourth."
"That was the night Fred and Tammy got shot."
Judith nodded. "And our meeting never happened. We spent the next few days playing phone tag, both of us so busy we couldn't talk on the phone, let alone get together. By Wednesday night, I was sick of the stress; all I wanted was to get this over with."
The shift was subtle—a slowing in Judith's breathing, her fingers relaxing their interlacing around her mug. Her mouth curved up slightly, a twitch Olivia caught only because she feared Otten would try again to slip something past her.
"The morning of Fred's funeral, Joe left a message that wasn't the usual 'Call me back when you get a chance.' He told me he knew how hard the day would be for me and he understood the grief and the hurt and the fear I was feeling. Listening to him was like having arms wrapped around me and a promise that everything would be all right…."
Judith's eyes moistened as she remembered.
"I didn't realize how much I missed that."
Olivia leaned forward as the older woman blinked to clear her eyes.
"But... from Fontana?"
Judith's crooked smile admitted the disconnect in what she had just said.
"I know; I know—a warm, loving hug from someone who is arrogant, unreliable, and blatantly hedonistic. It put me right back on the razor's edge, unable to stay where I was and completely unsure where to jump to. On one side was a guy who said the right things and acted like he cared, but whom I didn't fully trust. On the other side was exactly what I have right now—familiar and safe."
Her shoulders sagged and the crooked smile dissolved into a rueful frown.
"I couldn't take the confusion anymore so I called him today and told him."
The slump of her shoulders told Olivia how much the decision to dump Fontana pained the older woman. She reached over and patted Judith's hand.
"I know how you feel," she said, her voice low and comforting. "Anyone would feel bad about bursting his bubble like that. Afterwards, I'd probably do the same thing you did—splurge on something to make me feel better. Maybe not earrings, but...."
The complete lack of expression on Judith's face halted her words.
She goes any more blank and I'll have to check for a pulse….
Olivia peered directly at the older woman's face.
"You did stick with your decision, didn't you?"
Judith met Olivia's question with a steely glare.
"No, I flipped a coin. If you don't mind, I'm going to check on Barnett."
She snatched her mug from the table and headed downstairs. The sharp click of her shoes on the treads was replaced by the clatter of carafe against coffee machine before Olivia shook off her shock and went to the railing.
"You telling me," she called down at Otten, "you're engaged to Smugtana?"
Judith kept her attention on the hot liquid pouring into her mug.
"Are you out of your fucking mind?"
Judith slammed the carafe on its hot plate and left for the interrogation room without another word, her brisk steps and stiff carriage showing Olivia how offensive that question was. Olivia slumped against the railing, ignoring the press of the iron rail against her forearms, and stared at the empty squadroom.
We've all gone batshit crazy... every damn one of us...