Chapter 28: A Tough Week

Monday morning arrived too early for a weary, battered Bobby. Friday night's game had taken a lot out of him. The constant pounding from the tight double-team had left him with bruises on his chest, back and arms, and despite his natural stubbornness, he recognized the wisdom of Alex's suggestion that he skip the running for a few days.

It seemed that a lot was catching up with him: the pounding from the game, the lingering effects of his encounter with Joey MacGruder and the natural drop in adrenaline after he and Alex solved the Kensington Leonard case. When the quarry was bagged, there was always a bit of a letdown as body and mind relaxed from the excitement of the hunt.

And it didn't help that he had gone from golden boy the week before to the butt of jokes at 1PP.

"Hey, Goren, better not take any vacations. The Port Authority won't let you back in the city."

"Yo, Goren. Is it true the Staten Island Ferry ran over you the last time you went swimming?"

"I hear he's gotta sleep here in the crib because the PAs won't let him cross any bridges to go home."

The first few jests caught him off guard, and though he laughed along, he felt the sting inside. After a while he got used to them, but as the day went on, they grew tiresome.

Alex and Carolyn bristled at a few of the jabs, but Bobby and Mike both cautioned them not to overreact. As Mike explained, it goes with the territory. Part of being out there on the court, playing the game for all the world to see, was that the people sitting safely in the stands could pick at their flaws without exposing any of their own.

"That's sports," Mike said with a shrug as they lunched at a deli a few blocks from 1PP. He took a big bite of his pastrami on rye and chewed thoughtfully. "And a lot of the time, the guys who are the worst athletes are the loudest at trash talking. They feel inadequate because they can't play – or are afraid to risk playing – and they cover it up by poking at the guys who do. Ever been at a Super Bowl party and listened to all those 'experts' criticizing the NFL players' mistakes? Probably not a single one of them could take a hit from a pro and keep playing."

"I guess that makes sense," Carolyn said, frowning and pulling at a loose piece of lettuce on her turkey sandwich. "But it doesn't make it fair. Bobby played really hard all game, and he distracted the Port Authority defense enough to open it up for our other guys to score. Doesn't that count for something?"

"It counts for winning," Mike said with a nod toward Bobby, who ducked his head shyly and fiddled with a potato chip. "The thing about being the game's unsung hero is that, by definition, people don't realize it and don't sing your praises. But the players know that without Bobby's contribution, we wouldn't be in the championship game Saturday night."

"And the knowledgeable fans know," Alex said with a grin and a tap on Carolyn's arm.

With a sly side glance at Alex, Carolyn turned to Mike. "So the statistics don't always tell the story of the game, huh?"

"Exactly," he said with an emphatic nod.

"So just because some guy scores a bunch of points, it doesn't mean he's the best player, no matter how much he brags that he is?" Carolyn said, a grin spreading across her face.

"Ouch!" Mike said with a wince. "Got me."

Laughter filled the air as all four detectives felt just a little lighter. The rest of the afternoon wasn't so bad for Bobby. It was good to be reminded that his friends were on his side, no matter what other people thought.

Practice that evening went smoothly. Mike was allowed back on the court, with his ankle heavily taped, and everyone worked at half speed to help him get back into the flow and to focus on the mental side of their preparations for Brooklyn's Finest. Coach Hunter went over the opponent's tendencies and laid out strategies for taking advantage. Both teams were mostly man-to-man on defense and had accurate outside shooting as well as strength on the boards.

Mike and Patterson, the two shooting guards, would be matched up on the perimeter, and Bobby hoped that being far away under the boards would keep any nastiness to a minimum. But Hunter, warned about the problems between the two, was worried.

"You're going to have to keep your wits about you at all times," the coach told Bobby as they sat on the bench during a water break. "Patterson and his buddies will almost certainly try to bait you into losing your temper. If they can neutralize you, they'll be a huge step closer to the championship."

"I'll be ready. I held it together the whole second half last week," Bobby said earnestly.

"Yes, you did," Hunter acknowledged. "That was crucial, and you got it done. But remember, that was a simple, cold calculation on PA's part. They decided that without Mike, you were the guy they had to stop. Fortunately, it backfired on them. These guys from Brooklyn hate you … or at least one of them does. They'll add venom to the mix, and maybe even cheap shots. And if you retaliate, well, it's always the second blow that is spotted by the officials. But we can't afford to lose you, no matter what they pull."

Bobby nodded, and the serious look in his eyes told Coach Hunter he was getting through. It wasn't going to be easy, but at least the big guy understood what he needed to do – and not to do.

By Wednesday, with the bruises healing and the jokes getting too old for anyone to bother, Bobby was feeling considerably better. Practice that night was spirited, with Mike at full speed – and as cocky and fun-loving as ever. Twice he lobbed passes above the rim for Bobby to dunk, but the timing wasn't quite there. Bobby missed a dunk on the first one and made a layup on the second.

"C'mon, lame ass," Mike hollered with feigned impatience. "Get up there and jam it!"

Bobby just shook his head. "I don't know, Mike. I can't seem to time my jump right."

"You're too tentative. Ya gotta believe."

Bobby nodded, but he didn't look convinced.

"Just pretend you're jamming it down the throat of one of those jerks who's been trash-talking you this week."

That brought a laugh, and the smile stayed on Bobby's face.

A few minutes later, Frankie Lester tossed another lob, and this time Bobby's left hand reached above the rim, his long fingers spread wide to control the ball. He flicked his wrist and managed to redirect the ball through the hoop, though it bumped the inside of the rim on the way down.

Hunter's whistle chirped to stop play, and several players shouted or clapped. "Attaboy, Bobby!" "Woo-hoo!" "Take that, Brooklyn!" "Yeah!"

The coach smiled. "A little awkward, but it'll do."

Bobby tilted his head and looked at the floor, but there was no hiding the ear-to-ear grin over his first dunk.

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Bobby and Alex spent a snowy, cold Friday morning in the office at 1PP, drinking coffee and wrapping up their paperwork on the Kensington Leonard case. As Alex hit the print button on the last of her forms, Bobby leaned back in his chair, stretched his arms and rolled his neck.

"Feeling OK over there, champ?" Alex asked.

"Yeah, just sitting in one spot too long." He hit his print button too. "That's all of mine. How about yours?"

"Done," she said proudly. "I'll be first out of the printer again. You're too slow, Goren."

"I'm at a disadvantage," he protested. "These itty-bitty keyboards aren't built for a big man's hands. I get all cramped up when I type too long."

Alex shook her head. "Excuses, excuses. You're just tense and restless because you have to wait an extra day for the game this week. We're going to have to find a way for you to burn off some of that energy."

Bobby raised his eyebrows and gazed at her hungrily. "I could think of a few things."

That got a snarky grin. "I'll be you could." Alex rose from her chair, sauntered to the printer and came back with two handfuls of forms. Giving one set to Bobby, she slid hers into a manila folder that was already thick with papers. "I'll take these to the captain," she said, reaching for Bobby's newly fattened folder.

The desk phone rang, and Bobby handed Alex the file with a nod. "Goren," he said as she turned away.

"Hi, Detective. It's Harkness in Property. We've pulled the stuff you requested out of the Kensington Leonard evidence. It's ready to pick up."

"Great. Thanks, Harkness. We'll be right down."

Bobby hurried after Alex and caught up as she entered the captain's office.

"Got your case files finished?"

"Yes, sir," Alex said, stacking the folders on his desk and looking surprised at her partner's appearance.

"Good job. Nice to get that off your plate before the next one comes in. And so you've got a clear mind for tomorrow night's game," Ross added with a smile.

"We've just got one more detail to attend to, Cap," Bobby said. "Property called. They've separated Leslie's personal effects that won't be needed for the case. I thought maybe Eames and I could pick them up and return them to Mr. Leonard this afternoon."

"Sounds good. Maybe they'll be of some comfort."

It turned out to be two boxes' worth of items from the spa – some contents of Leslie's desk and locker that had seemed interesting when the crime scene was first examined but had ended up having no bearing on the case. The detectives loaded the boxes into the SUV, and after ducking into a midtown diner for a hot lunch, they were right on time to meet Leonard at home at 2 p.m.

The restaurateur greeted them at the door and welcomed them into his living room. He indicated a table, and they unburdened themselves of the boxes there. Then he motioned them to seats on the sofa and offered coffee, which they politely declined. As he leaned against the sideboard and stirred his own cup, he seemed subdued, and he spoke quietly. "My world has been turned upside down by all this, but I do want to thank you for finding Leslie's killer."

"You're welcome, Mr. Leonard," Alex answered for them. "We're just sorry that some painful things came out of the investigation."

"I suppose that happens a lot in your business, doesn't it?" he asked, and they noticed that his eyes were red-rimmed.

"Unfortunately so, sir," Bobby replied. "The truth is often painful when it comes to light."

"How do you not end up being cynical when you see so much of this? How do you go on when you see relationships broken and horrible crimes committed? You've probably been at this for years, haven't you? Years of misery and unspeakable tragedy. Even though it's strangers, it must affect you."

"Sometimes it is very hard," Alex mused, nodding. "I guess we just keep refocusing on the good things, the simple things, when we can. We try to get justice for the victims and the survivors, and we hope that getting some sort of resolution helps them to move forward."

"And for ourselves, we keep finding fresh things in life to appreciate," Bobby said, with a glance that met Alex's eyes. "Even after all these years of police work, we still find new things to experience, to feel good about. There's a future out there, and we just have to grab hold and make it a good one."

A soft smile from Alex at that remark went unnoticed by Leonard, who was thoughtfully considering the detectives' insights. He sighed. "It may be awhile yet before I feel good about moving forward. But I hope you're right. I hope someday I can do that."

The detectives sensed it was time to go and rose to excuse themselves. As Leonard escorted them to the door, he said, "You're welcome anytime at my restaurant. Just tell them you are my guests."

"Thank you, sir," Bobby said politely. Alex nodded.

Moments later they were out on the sidewalk, strolling toward the SUV. Though it was midafternoon, the chill in the air seemed to be keeping pedestrian traffic to a minimum. Bobby glanced across the street and found himself looking up to the top of Judge Garrison's building and remembering the day he was injured. He paused, and so did Alex, following his gaze. "That was a close call up there," he said.

"Well, thank goodness you had me to rescue you," Alex said, smiling and briefly rubbing his back. Even through the heavy overcoat, he felt warmed by her hand. He met her smile and replied firmly, "Always."

As they resumed walking, Bobby noticed out of the corner of his eye a large figure in a gray coat at the entrance to an alley just ahead of them. He sensed the man was watching them, so Bobby turned his head and looked directly at him. And stopped in his tracks. Alex took a step, but Bobby grabbed her arm tightly enough to stop her too. Confused, she looked up at him and then turned to see what he was looking at.

As her eyes widened in recognition, she heard Bobby say softly, "Joey MacGruder."