Office of E.A.D.A. Jack McCoy

One Hogan Place.

11 am Tuesday July 17 2007

"We're on our way to get the handbag now," Regan said over the phone. "And hey — does the DA's Office pay hazard pay?"

"Sure," McCoy said. "It's exactly the same as regular pay." Regan laughed and hung up.

McCoy pulled a stack of files toward him and opened the one on the top of the pile. People v Courtney. Regan's spiky handwriting marched down the margin, recommending an offer of Man Two if the police or the D.A's investigators couldn't turn up another witness before trial. McCoy checked the name on the appearance notice. Jessica Sheets. She'd deal, if the price was right.

On the other hand, if Jessica Sheets had allowed her client to enter a plea of not guilty, either the case was weaker than it looked on the face of it —

Or she believes her client really didn't do it.

He pressed the intercom button on his phone. "Colleen, can you find out if Jessica Sheets is free for a conversation? Face-to-face. Sometime in the next week or so."

"Dinner?" Colleen asked, tactfully.

McCoy grinned at the phone. "Dinner is fine. So is lunch, my office, or a cup of coffee." Not a date, Colleen.

He cut the connection before he could be tempted to call Colleen in to his office. He wanted to, wanted to call her in and sit her down and talk to her, tell her that she had nothing to worry about, that he'd make sure Dan never came near her, never again.

But she'd asked Regan specifically not to tell him. He didn't like it, any more than he'd liked it all those years ago when he'd watched Colleen come to work with bruises, week after week. Then, there'd been nothing he could do until she was ready. Now —

Now she wasn't terrorized into silence. Now he had to respect her decision.

It was a lot easier to do so knowing Colleen had Regan and Serena on her side.

"Jack." McCoy looked up to see Arthur Branch in his doorway. "I thought you'd want to know — Bill Williams has been discharged. His wife says he's doing well."

"I'm glad to hear it," McCoy said.

"We won't have the budget to fill his position until he decides whether or not to retire," Branch said, wandering over to the couch and sitting down. "That means the rest of you will be covering his cases for a while."

"Not a problem." McCoy drew the relevant stack of files toward him. "I've assigned the trickiest ones to Regan."

Branch raised an eyebrow. "Do I hear the hoof-beats of favoritism?"

"You hear practicality," McCoy snapped. "It means I can keep an eye on them and step in when necessary. Give me a little credit, Arthur! I've always put the job before everything else. Ask any of my ex-wives."

"Now, Jack —"

"My personal life has never interfered with my work!"

"Except that's not entirely true, is it?"

It wasn't entirely true. An innocent man had gone to jail and two boys had died because of his relationship with Diana Hawthorne. He'd ignored the damage it would cause to their case against James Smith to bring Claire back as his second chair, against Adam's direct instruction, because she'd been talking about leaving the D.A's Office and he would have done anything, said anything, to stop her.

He'd pushed the limits of the law to prosecute those responsible for Toni Ricci's and Alex Borgia's deaths. And he'd come close to being disbarred for what he'd done trying to convict the drunk driver who'd come to represent for him the man who'd caused Claire's death.

Not to mention the prosecutions that he could easily have let slide into the crapper in those first, worst months after losing Claire, if not for Jamie Ross.

McCoy hadn't earned the reputation of One Hogan Place's resident junkyard dog by flinching. He met Branch's gaze steadily. "And unless you have any evidence that my working relationship with Ms Markham is damaging the efficiency of this office — which, may I remind you, is up two percent on last year as far as major felonies is concerned —"

"I'm concerned about the integrity of this office, not its efficiency."

"I think your concern is politics, not integrity."

"That's a hell of an accusation, Jack."

"This last year hasn't played well for you, Arthur. It opened with the murder of an A.D.A. and the mid-season featured a grovelling apology by Mike Cutter for prosecuting me. You don't think you can survive one more scandal."

"No, Jack." Branch rose to his feet. "I don't think you can."

12th Precinct

11 am Tuesday July 17 2007

There wasn't room in the patrol car for all of them. Falco rode with the patrol officer who'd arrested Li, Fowler, and Li herself. Regan thanked her lucky stars for dodging that bullet as she got in the back of Briscoe and Green's pool car.

The smell got in with her. "Oh, Jesus," Green groaned, and punched up the air-conditioning.

Regan sneezed. "What is that, pineapple?"

"Don't get him started," Briscoe warned as he pulled out to follow the blue-and-white.

"This is worse than decomp," Green said. "I'm going to have to burn these clothes."

"Lemon," Regan said.

Briscoe glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. "I thought it was tomato juice."

"That's skunks."

"No, for skunks, you use apple cider vinegar."

"Fuck this, man," Green said, and hit the button to lower all four windows. A blast of heat washed into the interior of the car. "Frying has to be better than suffocation."

Li showed them where she'd found the handbag, and then where she'd stashed it, inside a boarded-up building. Green slipped on a pair of latex gloves and looked inside. "Wallet," he said, using a pen to lift one flap. "Driver's license, it's our girl. Some receipts. Keys. Loose change and —" He looked up, grinning. "Oh, man, Lennie, I have to take a picture of this for the next time the LT gets on me about luck."

"What have you got?" Briscoe asked. "A signed confession?"

Green reached carefully into the bag and drew out a spent shell, holding it carefully by the ends to avoid smudging any prints on the barrel. "Maybe so, Lennie. Maybe so."

"We'll take this straight to forensics," Briscoe said. "Can we drop you off on the way, counselor?"

Regan shook her head. "No offense, Lennie, but the only way you're getting me back in that car with you is at gunpoint. I'm going to stop off at home, burn my clothes and shave my head."

It was a half-hour's walk to Abbie's townhouse, which was unpleasant given the heat of the day, but Regan didn't think it was fair to inflict herself and her smell on any of New York's cab-drivers — or their subsequent passengers. She carried her attache-case gingerly, well away from her body. It was her one truly extravagant purchase, all leather, and she was thankful she'd had to good sense to leave it outside the interrogation room.

She was drenched in sweat and had blisters on both heels by the time she reached her destination.

She opened the door. "Abbie? You home?"

Abbie appeared in the kitchen door. "Yeah, my jury — oh, my god, what's that smell?"

"Defendant," Regan said succinctly.

Abbie wrinkled her nose. "Were they still alive?"

"Can you get me a garbage bag?" Regan asked, taking off her jacket.

Abbie nodded, and a moment later came back with one. She held it out to Regan at arm's length and then retreated hastily. "I hope it was worth it."

"It might get us a conviction on Coran." Regan shoved her jacket into the bag and began taking off the rest of her clothes. Her shoes joined her jacket in the bag. About to shuck her blouse, she hesitated. "Do you mind turning around?"

Abbie turned her back. "I've been in locker rooms, Regan."

"Yeah." Regan slipped off her shirt and then her skirt. "I've —" She took a breath, made her voice conversational. "I've got some scars. I don't like people seeing them."

It was Abbie's turn to take a breath. "I didn't think. Sorry."

"It's fine." Regan knotted the top of the bag. "I'm going to shower. You'd better put this straight in the trash."

"I have a dry cleaner who takes danger money," Abbie said. "He's handled decomp postmortem clothes for me. I'll get you the address."

She went into the kitchen without turning around, and Regan hurried up the stairs.

She had to wash her hair three times to get rid of the smell, but when she finally turned off the shower, she couldn't smell anything except shampoo and soap. She grabbed a towel. One thing about police work I don't miss, decomposing bodies and mid-summer dumpster dives …

It was a lie, and she knew it. There was nothing about police work she didn't miss.

She couldn't go back on the force, not here, not anywhere. If she hadn't known it herself, her partner had made it clear. Take medical retirement, three words on a Post-It stuck to the DVD of CCTV footage from Seattle's Police Department Headquarters. Take medical retirement.

There might be other options, though, given she might be going to need a new job. Regan dried herself off quickly and went to grab fresh clothes from her room. Probation officer, parole officer … If she were Corrina Li's probation officer, for example, Regan could work to get her into a shelter, to hook her up with the services that could help her with whatever issues had put her on the street in the first place. Rehab. Counseling. Maybe adult education.

It was a nice fantasy and Regan let herself entertain it as she pulled on slacks and a clean shirt. She tucked her hair behind her ears and jogged down the stairs. "Abbie, I'm —"

She stopped dead.

Jack McCoy was in the hall.