Hold On To What You Got
Mercy General
Tuesday January 2nd 2007
When they got to the hospital Wheeler outpaced Briscoe and had to wait for him at the doors, almost hopping from foot to foot with impatience. The elevator took forever to arrive and when it did, it took forever get to the right floor. When the doors opened Wheeler charged out, and Briscoe had to point out to her that she was going in the wrong direction.
"Here," he said, leading her to the right door.
Wheeler hesitated, hand on the doorknob. Briscoe sighed, and reached past her to open it. He put his hand in the small of her back and gave her a firm shove. "In," he said.
Logan was sleeping. Wheeler looked at him in silence for a moment. He looked – terrible. His face was half-hidden by an oxygen mask, but Wheeler could still see new lines around his mouth and eyes.
He looked terrible, but he looked alive. Wheeler pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down, resting her hand over his, feeling the warmth of his skin, watching the rise and fall of his chest.
"You want coffee?" Briscoe asked her.
"I'm okay," Wheeler told him.
"I'm gonna get some," Briscoe said. "You'll be alright on your own."
It wasn't a question but Wheeler nodded anyway.
She sat alone with Logan. After a while he opened his eyes.
She could just see through the mask that he was smiling. "There you are," he said faintly. "I been wondering where they had you locked up."
"Mike, I'm so sorry," Wheeler blurted, and burst into tears. She bent over and put her face against his hand, sobbing too hard to speak.
"Oh, Jesus," Logan said. With a visible effort, he reached his other hand across the bed and rested it on the top of her head. "Fuckin' rookies, I tell ya."
She snuffled with laughter and began to hiccup. "I'm sorry, Mike, I should have come sooner."
"Yeah, I'm .. gonna .. kick your … ass .. when they let me … ofa this bed." His eyelids drooped. "I gotta … close my eyes … a sec … gotta talk to you. Don't go nowhere."
"No way, Mike," Wheeler said earnestly, and hiccupped.
Logan fell asleep again, smiling.
She was sitting by the bed, holding Logan's hand with one hand and wiping tears from her cheeks with the other, when the door opened. She looked up, expecting to see Briscoe, but instead Gina Lowe came into the room.
Oh, shit, Wheeler thought, thinking about what she'd think if she came into a room and found some other woman at her lover's bedside. "Gina," she said. I was – I just – "
"I'm glad you could come," Gina said, smiling. "Mike's been asking for you."
"Yeah," the man himself whispered. "Worried ... what you'd get up to … no-one to keep you out of trouble."
"Lennie's been doing fine on that front," Wheeler told him.
"Heard you got … shot at … today," Logan said.
"Not me. Someone took a shot at Ron Carver," Wheeler said. "Missed him."
"Ron Carver …" Logan murmured. "There's a blast from the past." He closed his eyes again. Wheeler thought he'd gone back to sleep but he roused again. "Leonie Fraser," he said.
"Goren and Eames are looking into it," Wheeler told him.
Logan shook his head a little. "No..." he said. "Listen. The case … Fraser." His eyes started to close and he blinked hard, fighting sleep. "The case … south …"
"Don't worry," Wheeler told him, "We won't let the case go south. Don't worry."
"No…" Logan murmured. His eyes closed. "No … south … south…" His voice trailed away and he was out.
"Mike?" Wheeler said. "What do you mean? Mike?"
"Don't," Gina said softly. "I'm sorry, Megan, but he's still so weak. Don't wake him again."
Wheeler nodded. "Okay," she said. It's not important. Mike's full of drugs. He probably doesn't know what he's saying. "Okay." South. South what?"
Probably nothing.
She sat for a moment longer, holding Logan's hand.
South…
"Mike always says you have good instincts," Briscoe says.
"I've got to go," she said abruptly. She slipped her hand free of Logan's. "I need to – check something. Tell Mike – " She paused. "Tell him I'll be back soon."
"I'll say all the right things," Gina assured her, smiling, and Wheeler was surprised to realize she had faith that Gina would.
She passed Briscoe in the hall.
"Leaving already?" Briscoe asked.
"I gotta run something down," she told him. "You okay to get home?"
"Yeah, go on," Briscoe said. "Unless you need a hand – ?"
"Nah, it's probably nothing," Wheeler said. "Waste of time. Just – "
"You go on, then," Briscoe said. "Call if you need to."
"Sure, Lennie," Wheeler said, realizing that she meant it.
In her car, she pulled out her cell and found a number.
"Goren," a familiar voice answered.
"It's Wheeler," she told him. "I had a question – about Leonie Fraser."
"What?" Goren asked. A rustle told her he'd covered the receiver with his palm. "… Wheeler…" she heard him tell someone.
"Does the word 'south' mean anything to you?" Wheeler asked. There was a silence at the end of the line and she found herself holding her breath, waiting for him to say, Sure, of course, waiting for the famous instincts of the famous Detective Goren to solve the puzzle.
"No," he said. "No, I don't think so."
Dammit. "Where are the case files?" she asked.
"Carver's office," Goren said. "What's going on, Wheeler?"
"Probably nothing," Wheeler said. "Mike said something."
"You saw Mike?" Goren asked, and Wheeler wasn't sure if the surprise in his voice was really there or if it was her imagination.
"Yeah, I saw Mike," she said. "He said 'Leonie Fraser. South'. I thought you might know what he meant."
"No idea," Goren said. "Do you want us to meet you at Hogan Place?"
Half of her wanted to say Yes. Meet me. Help me. Goren and Eames were real detectives, experienced. Goren was maybe a genius. Eames was the kind of tough-as-nails cop Wheeler wished she had a chance of becoming.
My partner. My hunch.
Got to learn to fly on your own sometime, baby bird.
"Nah," she said. "Probably nothing."
"Let us know," Goren said.
"Sure," Wheeler said, and hung up.
One Hogan Place was nearly empty by the time she got there. Carver's office was locked – of course it is – and there was no-one in sight she could ask to let her in. She thought about ringing up to the tenth floor and asking Regan Markham to find someone for her before she remembered that Regan Markham wouldn't be there.
She thought about who would have the authority to open the office, dialed a number on her cell before she had the chance to back out.
"Mr. Branch's office," a woman's voice said.
Wheeler made her voice cool and professional. "This is Detective Megan Wheeler from Major Case," she said. "I need access to ADA Carver's office. Is Mr. Branch there?"
"He's left for the day," the woman said. "But hold on, let me get someone for you."
A moment, and then: "Jack McCoy."
"Mr. McCoy, this is Detective Megan Wheeler of Major Case," she repeated. "Can you get someone to let me into Ron Carver's office, please?"
"Why?" McCoy asked. He sounded busy, distracted and impatient.
"I need to check something in his files," Wheeler said.
"To do with the shooting?" McCoy sounded suddenly more interested.
"Yes," Wheeler said.
"Why isn't your Captain calling me?" McCoy asked.
Damn. Wheeler bit her lip, decided on honesty. "It's a hunch, sir. That's all. Not a lead."
A long pause. "Okay," McCoy said, surprising her. "I'll call security."
That easy, Wheeler marveled. As if I were a real detective who might really have a real hunch.
Snap out of it. You are a real detective. You might not be Mike Logan or Alex Eames but you have a gold shield. That's proof you're a detective. So detect.
Two hours later, Wheeler was less sure. She put her head in her hands and stared at the pages she'd spread out over Carver's desk. Leonie Fraser, south.
South fucking what, Mike?
She scanned the pages in front of her. Southport? South 15th St? South-goddamn-side Chicago?
Nothing.
Well, what do you expect, Wheeler? Man's shot to pieces and full of drugs and you think he's about to solve the case for you?
Wheeler gathered the papers together and started putting them back in order. Transcripts, statements, notes … Squaring them off, she hooked the file box from the floor and hoisted the papers to put them away. The stack was too big for her to manage one-handed, though, and the pages slipped and fanned open. Wheeler swore, put them down again and started shuffling them together again, thumbing through them to make them sit flat.
About to drop them in the box, she stopped.
What was that?
She leafed through the pages again, looking for the one that had caught her eye.
I saw … something …
Transcripts, statements, depositions, evidence lists, notes …
Right at the bottom, a carbon copy, thin as onion-paper, probably hard to read even when it was new. Wheeler didn't need to read, it though – she only needed to see one word in faded cursive, written firmly under the heading 'Complaint drafted by:'
ADA Southerlyn.
Not 'Southport' or 'south 15th' or 'south side Chicago.'
Southerlyn.
Wheeler dropped the files into the box and pulled out her cell. She called up Serena's number and a smiling snap of the blonde lawyer greeted her. Serena looked a little tipsy in the photo – well, she had been. They both had been, towards the end of the Christmas party, exchanging numbers and taking pictures of each other with their phones.
Wheeler looked at the photo for a second.
I'm wrong. It's not what Mike meant. Or he's wrong. He's full of drugs.
Someone's wrong.
Memory kicked up Mike Logan's growl. "Learn to trust your instincts, Wheeler. Police work's more than the regs."
She selected 'cell' and hit 'call'.
Ringing, ringing, and then Serena's smooth, professional voice. "You've reached Serena Southerlyn's message bank. Please speak after the tone."
She's in a meeting. At the movies. Her phone is on silent.
"Hi, Serena," Wheeler said. "It's Megan Wheeler. I need to speak to you urgently. It's work related." As the words left her mouth she thought that sounded like that was the only reason she might think to call. "Ah, not that I wouldn't call otherwise – I mean, I was meaning to call – but this is a case. Please call me as soon as you get this message."
She hung up, chose 'home', left a slightly better-thought-out message on Serena's home machine, then did the same at her office. Then she looked at her phone for a minute, waiting for it to ring.
It didn't.
Well, the message you left made you sound like a retard, she thought. I wouldn't return my call either.
She bit her lip. She's probably out to dinner.
It's nothing.
She got half-way through dialing the local precinct to ask for a drive-by and then cancelled the call. I can just imagine what happens after they knock on her door and say 'Excuse me, ma'am, Detective Wheeler wants to know why you aren't answering your phone.'
I'd live that down in a hurry.
Not.
She restored Carver's office exactly how it had been, checked her phone again in case she'd accidentally set it to silent. No. No missed calls.
Biting her lip, she tried all three numbers again. All three rang through to message.
Only fifteen minutes since I called. She's having a haircut, at a concert, meeting a client …
She knew what Logan would say. "Trust your instincts, Wheeler. I know you got 'em."
Dammit!
She locked Carver's office and headed for her car. By the time she got there she was almost running. Working her way through the evening traffic she kept trying to reach Serena. Pick up, pick up, dammit, pick up!
She pulled up down the street from Serena's house in a semi-legal parking place and stuck her NYPD parking authorization on the dash. Even before she got out of the car she could see the lights blazing from Serena's windows.
So much for not home.
She doesn't want to talk to you, that's all, Wheeler, take a hint.
Wheeler rang Serena's home number and heard the distant ring of a telephone. Then the machine picked up and she hung up without saying anything.
Great. Now I am a fully-fledged stalker.
Lights on but nobody home. Wheeler didn't like it. She didn't like it at all. She's gone to get takeaway and doesn't want to come home to a dark house. You do it all the time.
But it was wrong. There was something wrong and she couldn't walk away.
Wheeler went up to the door and rang the bell, rang again, finger pressed on the buzzer, stopped and listened for the sound of someone coming to the door. Nothing. On the off-chance the bell was broken, she knocked good and hard, rat-a-tat-tat-police-business-ma'am.
Nothing.
She's probably in the shower. Or just doesn't want to be disturbed. Or she has company.
The only thing 'wrong' is that you thought she liked you and she's changed her mind. That's all. Don't invent explanations.
Wheeler walked away.
"You gotta trust your instincts, Wheeler. You got them. They've just atrophied. You gotta trust your instincts if you're ever gonna be the cop I know you can be."
She stopped. Her instincts … her instincts were telling her that she needed to see Serena, needed to see that she was all right.
Which instincts, though, huh, Megan? Cop instincts? Or the other kind?
Fuck it.
She turned back. Quiet, cat-footed, she sidled back up the steps of Serena's townhouse. She didn't knock on the door, but leaned to peer in the windows, one side, then the other.
Empty rooms.
Her heart picked up a sharper pace.
Come on, Megan, the rooms are empty, why are you getting nervy?
Because … because …
Because through the dining room window, she could see the door to the hall. And through that door, she could see an umbrella, a coat, a pile of mail, scattered across the floor.
And nothing else in her field of vision was out of place.
Wheeler found she had her gun in her hand.
Call for backup.
That's what her instincts were telling her. Call for backup.
And what – discover that Serena Southerlyn had come home and dumped her stuff in a hurry to answer the phone, and just not picked it up yet?
Call for back up.
And spend fifteen years living down the story of how Megan Wheeler got ten police officers to break up the hot lawyer's date?
It was too soon to call for backup, Wheeler decided. She edged back down the steps and scouted the side of the building. She remembered Serena showing her a courtyard out the back, beyond the kitchen. There must be some kind of access … The townhouse met the others on either side without a gap, though.
Wheeler jogged down the street, counting the houses she passed, until she reached the alleyway she knew would have to be there. She hurried along it, and found herself looking at the back of the last building in the row, and at the fence around its tiny yard.
She holstered her gun, and jumped. She managed to catch the edge of the fence and hauled herself up.
This is really stupid, Megan.
Trust your instincts, Wheeler.
Her instincts were telling her she was in an excellent position to either a) fall on her ass or b) get shot by a nervous householder. She pulled herself up to her feet and, balancing carefully, began to walk along the fence, counting the houses as she passed. Please, don't let there be dogs. Please, no dogs.
There were no dogs. She reached Serena's yard and quietly lowered herself down. The lights were on in the kitchen as well, spilling out over the courtyard. Wheeler made her way over to the back door, keeping as much to the shadows as she could.
The door was closed.
The door was closed, but the window beside it was broken.
.oOo.
A/N: Thanks for staying with me this far, more to come soon. Thank you for your reviews, and please keep letting me know what you think.
