Chapter Twenty-One

Office of Dr. Paula Gyson's office, 931 Broadway, Sunday, July 17

"How've you been detective?" Gyson's even toned voice cut through the cool air of her aesthetically calming office environment. The shades were strategically pulled down and angled such that most of the sunlight was reflected back outside. Two silver fans hummed in unison, the currents of air swirled against the heavy leaves of Gyson's indoor greenery.

"You seem somewhat perplexed," Gyson offered, shifting her weight back into her designer chair seat back.

Goren attempted to smile, but his right leg immediately betrayed him, vibrating up and down in earnest.

"It's uh," Goren started, "it's a case I'm working on."

"Oh yeah?" Gyson's eyebrows raised simultaneously, "Do you want to tell me about it?"

"Umm," Goren leaned forward, running his left hand from the back of his neck up towards the crown, "you know, maybe I shouldn't, I-I mean, you know, uh, maybe I should use this hour to, uh, get away from work for a while."

"Sure. Absolutely," Gyson nodded warmly, "with all past formalities out of the way, I hope you feel comfortable enough to use this session in any way that seems fit."

"Thank you," Goren cleared his throat, fighting the urge to rock back and forth in his seat - understanding that such behavior would probably make him out as someone who should be placed on the autistic spectrum. And because he'd only just received his 'not insane' stamp of approval over this very summer, as far as he was concerned, there was little reason to throw himself back under the NYPD's microscope.

"You do seem somewhat distracted," Gyson's eyes narrowed, "more so than usual. Are you sure everything is okay? How's your arm?"

"Uh, okay, better," Goren wiggled the fingers on his non-dominant hand, "actually things are uh, I suppose things have been better than they've been in a while."

"That's a good thing," Gyson's smile was genuine, "I'm happy to hear it."

"So detective," Gyson continued, "what do you think is making the difference?"

"Well, uh," Goren ran his left had over day old stubble, "I've changed some of my, uh," and half-way through the sentence he felt compelled to laugh, as if talking about personal challenges seemed somewhat ridiculous, "you know, some of my personal habits, and uh, people close to me have been supportive."

Gyson nodded her head in encouragement, asking him of course to elaborate.

"Uh, well, you see, there was the drinking more water and the diet," he paused, "for healing purposes, the broken arm was the impetus to cut off the smokes for good."

"Physical health is integral," Gyson's eyes twinkled, "and it's wonderful to hear that you are continuing to make the effort to take care of yourself. Or in other words, as we've discussed in previous sessions, you have starting to put your needs first."

Goren nodded, folding his hands in his lap.

After a long silence Gyson shifted in her chair, pulling her legs from under her, "so, how are things going with her?" she started hesitantly, "I don't mean to press, as these sessions are about you, but, I know that she is an integral part of your life."

"T-things seem to be working out okay," he spoke slowly in deep thought, "but it's not easy, you know?"

"Can you explain?"

"I uh, I don't know," Goren sighed, tension starting to build up with each breath, "i-it's complicated, I mean, when I think about, you know, that I understand them better than I understand almost anything, you know, even before I understand her. A-and that's fucked up, right?"

"You said them," Gyson shrugged her shoulders, "I'm sorry but I don't follow, who are you referring to?"

"The people I'm paid to track down, uh," Goren shook his head, unable to hide the emotion that was creeping into his voice, "I get them, I get the suspects, I know where they are coming from, I know what gets to them, what they want, what they need."

Gyson nodded, brushing a stray hair from her forehead, "We've talked about your emotional intelligence, about your coping skills, about your ability to read people."

"I-it's not just reading them," Goren tried to explain, "I get them, you know, because I'm only one degree different from standing in their shoes, right? A-and sometimes I just get tired, you know, so tired of it. I j-just want to be normal one day, wake up and be normal. Be able to understand her, uh, be able to get her and be able to give her what she needs. I-it doesn't come naturally and - you know, I wanted it to. Because, uh, it comes easy for me to understand all of those fucking idiots in my interrogation rooms," Goren paused, sighing as he slapped his left palm against the thigh, "I mean, what's the point of having a high EQ when you can't, uh . . ."

"Okay, okay, I see," Gyson spoke evenly, slower still, as if to promote a sense of calm – a calm he clearly didn't possess at this moment, "but I don't think you are thinking about this in the right way."

"Look," Goren laughed, "you can't fix everything here."

And the moment after he spoke, Goren didn't fail to see the corners of Gyson's mouth twitch upwards for a split-second.

"Maybe you don't need as much fixing as you think." Gyson offered, "So, let's see - when you start thinking in this manner, you need to ask yourself what bar you holding yourself up to. And consider this, think about all the things you've seen on the job over the years, you can't really believe that relationships come easily - like second nature."

"So it's back to that perfectionism concept?" Goren shook his head.

And from that point on in the conversation, for some strange reason, he danced around Gyson for the duration of the session. Most of him was preoccupied with wondered why he was taking the time for this kind of mental sparring while his partner was out their fielding for him, off fending for herself, just as it had been in the past.

Stepping out of Gyson's office, Goren absently checked his phone for missed calls. Balling up a dress shirt under his arm and waiting for her call, he realized that he should have worn a lighter or thinner undershirt. New York seemed to be on fire, and it wasn't even yet mid-day. Already, the humidity was beyond bearable, so much so that Goren nearly ran to the nearest underground.

A group of kids were milling aimlessly on his end of the platform. And as was true of most New Yorkers that didn't have immediate access to AC or a makeshift pool, the group of rag-tag adolescents were doing anything to escape the heat. A boom box blasting a simple beat, a repetitive melody that was hard not to pick up on – it was like he'd stepped back into a time machine and it was suddenly 1980 all over again.

Minutes after his train left the station, all the jazz in the library of his brain couldn't block out the simplistic beat of the strange fusion of kiddie-pop/hip-hop light. And with every passing station that blurred by, he was reminded that he had been turning into a dinosaur for years. One line from the song continued to reverberate in his skull:

. . . and all I ask is that you don't get mad at me . . .

He'd only been away from her, from the job, from this fucking case for over an hour. And all he was left with was this fucking line from a song in his head. To top it off, if Eames called now, the noise of the train would drown out any ringer, the motion of the car would mask any vibration, not to mention that the ability to catch any signal bordered on impossible. Her call would certainly kick her out to VM.

Coming out from the darkness and into the reflection of light bouncing off the steaming payment and a million additional reflective surfaces, the wave of heat hit him faster than the powerful stench of hot dog stands and urine. He ran up the flight of steps, and two-stepped all the way to 1PP. She'd not yet called, she was just trying to give him space, right?

. . . and all I ask is that you don't get mad at me . . .

Exiting the elevator onto the eleventh floor, he spotted her sitting at her desk, surrounded by a group of concerned NYPD detectives. And Eames wasn't the only one at Major Case taking the heat. The situation of having two detectives gunned down in daylight, necessitated that Hannah occupy his office on a Sunday afternoon. Hannah was similarly surrounded, a few overzealous prosecutors and an assistant DA were beating their chests, happily camped out in one of the most prestigious PD offices.

When Eames finally spied him, still flocked by multiple personnel, she silently gestured to him that he should use one of the multi-purpose room.

And sitting in that room (waiting for him) was a neatly compiled copy of the case file. It was time to quietly immerse himself in the puzzle, and his partner had had the foresight to give him the materials he needed to get started. And truly, it was why she was the superior senior partner - she'd always known how to play to his strengths. Goren sat down and slowly digested all the materials at hand. Pulling a mobile whiteboard forward, he began mapping out a game plan.

So thoroughly engrossed in the game at hand, Goren startled when Eames opened the door to the multi-purpose room, "Done with the one-seven for now," she reported, "and, um, scheduled a meeting with Ana Underwood, you ready?"

Goren nodded, "James' wife, right?"

Eames confirmed, a sad smile forming on her lips.

Underwood Residence, 47 39th Street, Queens, Saturday, July 17

The skyline of brownstone condos perspective abruptly ended at the intersection of the first perpendicular cross street. Goren wiped a bead of sweat from his head, and took in a sharp breath as he turned towards the forlorn unit. The heat reflected intensely against the blacktop, the air surrounding them formed into pockets of hot, hotter and inhumanely hot.

Eames steadied herself after shutting the SVU door behind her, pausing briefly to look skyward, "Are you ready for this?"

And of course, he knew the question wasn't really meant for him, "yes," he answered without hesitation.

And as they settled into the living room of Ana and the late James Underwood's rented Queens two-1/2 bedroom, he watched his partner put on her game face - even though it was easy for him to see that internally she was swiftly coming undone. It was in the way she squared her shoulders, her facial muscles rigidly controlled: her cheeks hollow and tight.

In a split second a thousand questions blew up in his mind. Starting along this thread: Should she go through this? And why am I, or rather, why are we still doing this?

Ana Underwood met them at the door, quietly ushered them through a narrow hallway and into a streamlined sitting area. Ana's face was telling, cheeks drawn with deep, red bags underlining her soft, sad hazel eyes.

Ana was a wreck, but honestly what else could be expected? The transition from shock to anger was a fine line – and one that clearly had not yet been transgressed.

Indeed, he'd been there, and the horror lay in knowing that the worst was yet to come.

"I'm so sorry Ms. Underwood," Eames spoke in a voice that seemed to belong to another, "I want you to know that you have our deepest condolences."

Goren swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded mechanically.

"He, he was," Ana started, using the back of her right index finger to brush away a tear, "he was on his way to see his nephew's soccer game."

"Where, uh, where was your nephew's game?" Goren pulled out his mechanical pencil and cracked open his leather binder.

"At the field near his school, PS 128, in the city, uh," Ana fumbled for words, "It was, something James was very much looking forward to."

"What time was the game?" Eames queried gently.

"Ten o' clock," Ana sniffled, "ten on the nose, a-and, well now we know, um, he never made it."

"In a statement you uh," Goren shifted uncomfortably, staring at a line of questions he'd prepared earlier in the day, (ones that were largely based on statements that were collected by his partner during her conversations with detectives from the one-seven), "at the hospital, y-you made a statement to detective Rojas suggesting that you may have received a call from your sister-in-law?"

Ana Underwood looked a touch confused, "Daniel? Danny Rojas? Oh yes, I remember. My sister-in-law, Emily, she called because James wasn't answering his cell. It must have been around the half, because my nephew kept asking why James hadn't shown up."

Goren nodded, "That would have been around twenty-five past the hour or so?"

"I can check my phone log," Ana stood up to find her handbag, after rummaging through her purse she found her cell and began sifting through her call log.

"Here," Ana handed the phone to Eames.

"Ten-twenty-eight," Eames confirmed, "that's about two hours to track down, give or take."

"Is there anybody," Eames spoke softly, "anybody at all, or any case that James was working on, um, anyone that might have had it out for your husband?"

"Oh god," Ana shook her head, "I-I just don't know. He worked on so many cases over the years. But nothing, and believe me, I've been racking my head, but nothing really stands out."

Goren bit down hesitantly on his bottom lip, "Uh, I-I'm sorry that I have to ask this next question, it's routine, uh, but how would you describe your relationship with your husband?"

"Good, good," Ana answered quickly, "I mean, it's not like we were newlyweds, and we had the occasional fight, but everything was okay, right? Everything was okay."

"Did he seem unusually preoccupied with work, or um, maybe with something outside of work?" Eames prodded.

Ana shook her head, "no, no. Same old long shifts, same schedule for years," Ana paused in thought, "Jesus, I-I just can't believe that he's gone."

Goren noticed his partner wince, noted that her left hand dug into the sofa.

And there was little more to gain from the interview, save the building up of deep seeded sorrow and the reopening of old wounds.

Back in the SUV, Goren popped a stick of cinnamon gum in his mouth before rolling up the windows as the AC kicked in, "one can do a lot in two hours."

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Eames turned toward him, eyes downward.

"Uh, well, clearly there was something going down that only James and his partner knew about."

"He wouldn't have missed his nephew's soccer game for just anything."

"Uh, and his partner wouldn't ask him to meet up on his day off, uh," Goren paused, "unless she was in trouble?"

"What kind of trouble?" Eames wondered aloud.

"And why was there alcohol on his breath?" Goren added.

And after a day of collecting and sorting pieces of the puzzle, by the time they found themselves at her place, it was very late.

All day, save the appointment with Gyson, Goren was locked away in his head, very much in the game at hand.

Eames had checked out too, she was lost - very much lost in the case . . . or an idea, or memory for that matter.

Multiple times during the day, he observed his partner staring off into space. And in general, he found her to be unusually quiet, less snarky, more apt to fall into long uninterrupted stretches of time devoted to the ever-growing case file.

Pulling off his dress shirt and tie, Goren showered immediately before falling into bed. He was feeling unusually fatigued, not to mention particularly grossed out about his cast. He felt particularly trapped by the fading black contraption that had presented him with so many unique issues during the healing process. He could only imagine what his atrophied arm was looking like these days, in terms of scent - well his sensitive nose was certainly picking up that there was a not-so-fresh smell emanating from that particular region. And during the day, on multiple occasions, he had to stop himself from shoving his mechanical pencil up the sides to relieve the chronic low grade itching. He'd only just managed to track down the last plastic bag in Eames' house just so he could take a shower in the first place. But in the end, as much as he wished to vent, the cast was the least of his worries.

Now comfortable in bed, Goren's eyes closed heavily as he pressed the left side of his face into his pillow, which like everything else in the room, smelled of her.

All the while, he was remotely aware that she was still up and about. After all, this was the case she wouldn't be able to set aside.

It was the case that was going to take her down, drag her about . . . chew her up and spit her out.

And this time, he was going to be there for it all, at work and outside of work, no detail spared.

And as his brain starting to fade into the world of dreams, he decided that that's the way it should have been all along.

TBC