Chapter 37

"You look better, did you sleep?" Alex said the next morning, propping herself on one corner of his desk.

Bobby nodded. "Yeah, I slept. I feel good."

Alex nodded. She picked up the coffee he'd left for her and got up. "It hit the papers. I'm gonna get a tv brought in, we can watch the news."

Goren nodded, and delved back into his research of the Hayes-Fitzgerald family.

The story was on as soon as they got the set plugged in. Alex didn't even bother to sit down. "Did you know that Rick Siebert was an addict?" the reporter asked. The bottom of the screen read "Councilman's Daughter in Drug Shooting."

Neil had just the right blend of sorrow and solemnity in his expression. He didn't answer, just tried to quickly walk to his waiting car.

"Why didn't Stacy live with you?" pressed the reporter.

"Excuse me, addict or not, the death of a young man and the wounding of our child is a tragedy."

"He is slick," commented Eames.

"It should compel us to address the violence in these drug cultures," Neil continued onscreen.

Alex turned to Bobby. "Hayes-Fitzgerald just tap-danced very effectively to the tune of Siebert's death."

"Well, it must be in his genes," Goren said, glancing down at his notes. "His great-grandfather was a Tammany ward heeler. And then he was, uh, made building commissioner when his predecessor was found floating under the 59th Street bridge."

Alex sighed, disgusted. "Hayes-Fitzgerald. What's with the fancy hyphenate?" She walked around and sat in her chair, across from her partner.

"Hayes is his mom's side of the family? Now they've run City Hall on three occasions."

"Huh, which might have given her some useful connections."

Bobby handed over a file. "These are the… files that Rick Siebert hacked into."

"This… all from the Councilman's emails?"

Goren nodded. "He has correspondence on rare wines."

"A chat room for oenophiles," Alex said. "Not worth a headline in the Ledger."

"Yeah, but… the effort that Rick made to put all this stuff together, put it all into… files… You know, it's kind of like he had the scent of something and he thought it was real value." His knee bounced a little under the desk.

"Like what?"

"I don't know, but I'm picking it up, too. There's something here, Eames. Something of value to Neil Hayes-Fitzgerald."

Alex sighed heavily and pressed the heels of her hands against the edge of her desk. She looked down and shook her head slowly as she thought aloud. "Only one person I can think of who could tell us what he was sniffing out."

"Stacy," Bobby said with a nod.

"Stacy," repeated Eames.

"So, attacking your stepfather's career, was that Rick's idea or yours?" Alex asked. They were in Stacy's bedroom at the Hayes-Fitzgerald house. It was decorated with a combination of relics from her childhood and other, more mature fixtures.

Stacy turned to her grandmother. "He knows?"

"We've spoken about it," she said. "But he doesn't believe you were involved. He's certain it was all Rick's idea."

"Well, it was. Just for money." Most of her eye contact was with her grandmother and not with the detectives.

"Stacy, you wrote, uhm, 'screw the bastard'… on the margin of one of the articles about your Stepdad." Bobby paused. "To me, that sounds like anger." His eyes bored into her, and she shook her head anxiously, looking around.

"I'm home now. I won't talk about that." She sat on her bed, opposite her grandma.

"She shouldn't have to," said the older woman. "Stacy, like many young girls, went through a rebellious phase, but we're all back together now." She touched her hand to Stacy's back briefly.

Bobby pulled an armchair closer and sat down. "Uh, let's talk about the shooter. Any… facial hair? Scars? Piercings that—"

"He had a hat on. His sleeves were pushed up… uhm… on his wrists and arms, he had tattoos. Snakes or barbed wire."

"Do you think… he thought you were dead?" asked Goren.

She shook her head. "I don't know. He just… shot, looked us over, and left."

They thanked the women for their time and left the house. Out on the street, they discussed the interview. "If the killers were after drug debt, they would have killed them, you know, seeing they were packed for Aruba…" Bobby's illness was asserting itself again. He was feeling nauseated. He ducked his head a little as he walked, the open front of his coat flapping against his thighs with every step.

"And tear the place open looking for drugs… money…"

"Leaving the girl… it's not a pro's move, unless they had specific instructions. I mean, that brings it closer to home."

"We should file a court order for Camille's laptop," Eames said.

"Yeah, and the… wine correspondence thing. It sounds like, you know… like, old mob code. You know, Tony needs a shirt and a half by Mother's Day blah, blah, blah…"

Eames grinned. Bobby was on to something, she knew it. "Yeah, we'll check on the Councilman's true passion for the grape." She crossed over to the driver's door, leaving Bobby standing on the curb until she unlocked the SUV.

She was in more quickly than he was. "You okay?" she asked, noticing the flush in his cheeks.

"Yeah, it's… you know," he shrugged off her concern.

"You might have a fever," she said.

"No, I'm okay." He put his hand on his forehead a minute and then dropped it back to his lap. "Let's just… go. Let's do this."

She gave him a nod and pulled into traffic. As she drove them through the city, he rooted with his hands until he found a fresh bottle of water. He drank most of it before they got to the wine broker.

"The councilman leaves most selections to me," explained the broker. Alex knew very little about wine. She was leaving Bobby to take the lead on this one. She listened, and satisfied her curiosity about a small car that was on display in the showroom.

"Last month," the man continued, "I sent him this Saint Julienne." He picked up a bottle and showed it to Goren. "Full-bodied, long, beautiful finish."

"Yeah, the Councilman, he keeps going on and on about a… Chateau Jeunesse '94 cab, right?" Bobby stared at Alex, who had come up to stand beside him, then turned back to the broker.

"But… it's a Boire dans sa Jeunesse. He wouldn't order that now."

"Why not?" asked Eames.

Bobby spoke up. "Well, you're… s'posed to… enjoy it in its youth. You know, seven to ten years after it's bottled."

"The Councilman has a fine palate."

"You know, we'd like to review his purchases in the last six months," Goren said.

The man laughed. "We can't disclose this information." He walked away from them.

Eames called out, "Unless we shut you down for a forensic audit."

Bobby smiled and stepped closer behind the man. He spoke with his best French accent. "A print-out would do, eh?" Alex smiled behind him.

On the way back to 1PP, Alex stopped to pick up dinner while Bobby hit a corner drugstore for a pack of antacid tablets. Alex looked him over. She was sure he was feverish, but he seemed to be hanging in there. She wouldn't ask him about it again, it would only irritate him. She did, however, try to pick out something for dinner that wasn't likely to upset his stomach.

They ate in the case room, and pored over the new information, cross-referencing the purchases with the items named in Neil's emails. Eames took care of their empty food containers and returned to sit beside him.

"A couple of emails here…where the wine buddies are talking about a '97 Rioja. The Councilman never ordered any Rioja," Bobby told her, making a note on his paper.

"Well, same thing as the Jeunesse cab. He never purchased it."

"It's a code," Goren said quietly.

Alex checked her laptop. She had an email from Motor Vehicles. "Looks like our vehicle canvas paid off. An '06 black van was ticketed for blocking a driveway half a block from Stacy's place at 3:28 a.m. Security cameras picked up an illegal port entry eight blocks away from Stacy's place. Same late model black van at 3:46 a.m."

Bobby thought about these new bits of information. "So the killer shoots Siebert. Fifteen minutes later, he parks his van by the river and dumps the weapon."

"Yeah. We'll get the divers on it," said Eames.

"Any registration?"

"The van is registered to a Toscano Trucking Company in Brooklyn."

"Pay 'em a visit?" He suggested.

"It's getting late. Let's get the divers in the water. Maybe by tomorrow we could have a weapon to discuss."

Bobby nodded.

She looked at him with concern. "Call it a night?"

He glanced up and shook his head, at once recognizing the look on her face. "I'm gonna… crack the code. Give it a good try, anyway."

Eames nodded at him. "I have to pick up some groceries for my Dad. I'll uh… I'll see you back here in the morning." She studied his pale face and his flushed cheeks. "Try and get some rest tonight, Bobby."

He answered with an impatient nod. Bobby wasn't good at accepting care and concern from other people. It just wasn't something he had a lot of experience with.

Eames tried to give him a little smile as she left, but he was already buried in the paperwork.

The next morning, Bobby still hadn't buttoned his coat, but he did have a scarf hanging loosely around his neck. He'd skipped coffee this morning, and she hadn't seen him eat. The only thing she'd seen that broke through her concern for him was the way he joked about the coat and scarf. It was March. Most of the snow was gone, but the cold lingered.

They walked toward the warehouse together, and she noted that his steps were a little slower, too. Alex dropped her pace a little. There was no reason to rush, at least not yet.

"We're looking for Toscano Trucking?" She called out to an old man on a ladder.

"Who wants to know?" He asked, and then he saw their shields in plain view.

"Is this the correct address for the trucking company?" Bobby called out.

"He's got the whole third floor."

"And his name is?" inquired Eames.

"Di Rogga. If he got problems with the cops, I have other people who want that lease," the man told them.

They nodded and walked inside the warehouse. It was barren inside, save for a desk near the back, that held a phone, a computer, a printer, a tv, and a lamp. Di Rogga was on the phone, practicing casting with his new fishing pole while he spoke on the phone, something about Thursday's game in Philly.

They approached cautiously. "Forget about it," Di Rogga said. "You should know me by now. I never bet college baskets. That's a degenerate's game."

Bobby took the phone from his hand and hung it up. "Mr. Di Rogga." The guy reached for the phone and Bobby snared his wrist. Di Rogga yanked his arm free, but he didn't move from his chair. "We're here 'cause we… need something moved," Goren said.

"What?"

"This is a trucking company," Eames said.

"Everyone's out on long hauls right now," he said.

Bobby walked around Alex, past the desk and stood in front of Di Rogga. "Well, we're here on a short haul. You… from here to our headquarters." He put his hand on the man's arm.

"Well, that would involve my lawyer." They assured him he could call his lawyer once they arrived at 1PP, and led him out of the building.

"You're quite a dedicated fisherman, Mr. Di Rogga," said Alex. The guy sat at the table in the interrogation room, next to his lawyer. "Buying a boat midwinter," she finished, as Bobby came into the room carrying a tub from evidence.

"It's the right economy to buy anything."

"And paying to dry-dock it the rest of the winter?"

"So where did you get that $19,000 in cash from?" Bobby asked, siting down in the corner behind the suspect. He put the evidence bin on the floor. Bobby pulled a gun out of the box and looked it over while he listened.

"It wasn't half that much," said the man. "The guy was dying to get rid of it."

"Hmm." Alex bent down over him. "Your New York registration number. The seller, Mr. Owens, listed the purchase price as 19-5."

"We'd really like to know… where that money came from." It was Goren's voice, from the corner.

"It was a token of appreciation. I have a small trucking business that hauls antiques for wealthy clients." Goren got up and tucked a chair in beside Di Rogga. "They appreciate the care I take," he explained.

Goren sat down, as Alex continued to question him. "And they give you wads of cash?"

"Oh, don't worry. Come tax time, I'll report it."

Bobby rubbed his hands together, then pointed to Di Rogga's hand. "Can I see… your hand?"

"Sure." He held it out and Bobby tugged the man's pinky finger where he could get a good look. "See something you like, I'll set you up with my manicurist." His pinky had a nasty pinch that was healing up.

Bobby looked over at Eames. "Well, you know, our divers recovered this… Walther ppk .380 from the river. Specifically from the port where your van was spotted making an illegal entry." The lawyer had stiffened in his seat. Whatever this was about, his client had not fully prepared him for it.

Goren continued, "You know, the funny thing is about a Walther ppk is that it has a short grip." Bobby held the gun in his left and the clip in his right. "You know, see," he demonstrated as he spoke, "when you load the clip, you can pinch your little finger. Very similar to the pinch that you have." Bobby tried to grab Di Rogga's hand again, but he twisted it away.

"You have nothing tying that gun to my client," announced the lawyer. "We've been very cooperative… but, I think we're finished here." He got up, and Di Rogga followed suit.

"One more thing," interrupted Alex. "Can you pull up your sleeves?"

He did as she asked, a satisfied smirk on his face. His forearms were white as snow, not even an old scar was showing. "Looking for something special?" he asked, and smiled again.

"We're done, Johnny," said the lawyer. Alex opened the door and the two men left the room.

Bobby turned his head to Eames. "He's very smart. Used a temporary tattoo. Deliberately kept his sleeves up to draw attention away from his face."

Alex sighed.

"Yeah," he said wearily into the phone.

"Bobby, Stacy Hayes-Fitzgerald is in the E.R. Suicide attempt."

"Uh, I'll… I'll meet you over there." Alex told him the rest of the information and asked if he was up to it.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine."

"It's gonna take me a while to get over there, I was all the way home."

"I got it. Take your time."

Bobby saw her family huddled in the corner of the waiting area. He walked past the curtain, circled back, and opened the curtain far enough that Stacy could see them, too. The younger kids were with their parents, and Neil paced between the curtained area and the waiting area, watching Goren with interest. Bobby could hear the nurse speaking to Stacy as he approached. "You're on suicide watch until he approves your release."

"I'm in no hurry to leave," said Stacy.

Bobby hung back and offered the nurse a kind smile as she left the area. He approached Stacy's bed and gave her a wave.

She waved back.

He didn't look directly at her when he started to speak. "The information you gave us about Rick, it was very helpful."

"I'm glad someone was helped."

Bobby stared at her a moment, and once again he found himself convinced that she was the victim of abuse. He knew about abuse not only from his study and experience as a detective, but also from his own personal life. He felt for her. "I was wondering if you're feeling well enough to look at some photos," he said.

She nodded.

Bobby set his open binder at the foot of her bed, and collected a handful of trading-card size pictures. "Just, if you see the man that you described, just tell me, okay?" He dealt them out on the pillow her injured arm was resting on. She slid her hand back out of the way.

"Do we know why he shot Rick?"

"No, we don't know that yet."

Neil approached them from the waiting area, and Stacy's heart rate increased dramatically. Goren noticed. He watched the numbers change on the display, and checked her face. Then he turned to see who was the cause of her distress. "We just… need a… few more minutes."

"She needs her rest," Neil said.

Bobby pointed to the waiting area. "Maybe you could just go back over there." Both men wore friendly smiles. Both spoke in quiet voices, but the truth was there was a loathing between them that was palpable.

"I'm fine," Stacy said to Neil.

He nodded politely and looked over at Goren with that phony smile. The two men nodded politely at each other and Goren escorted him halfway back to the waiting area. Her heart rate dropped the farther her stepdad got from her bed.

Stacy sat up and looked over all the photos on the pillow. "Actually, I don't think I'm ready to do something like this," she said.

"It's okay," Bobby said, collecting the pictures back. "You've been through a lot." He looked down at her with compassion. "I understand." Goren put the pictures in a pile in his open binder and picked up a guest chair. He carried it around to sit at her side, where he could talk to her and keep one eye on her stepdad at the same time.

"It must have been tough… being in that situation back at… home," Bobby said.

"You don't know anything about that," Stacy told him.

"That's not true. I came from a… bad home. You said… when bad things are happening, you need to… take yourself away to another place. That's what I used to do," he explained. "I used to just want to lift myself up and take myself to another place, you know, so I could see things from somewhere else."

She listened. She sighed. She wanted to believe him. "Maybe it was just the crack."

Bobby followed her gaze. She was staring at Neil. "I think we both know that that's not true.

"I know what you're thinking. You're wrong."

Bobby sat with her quietly, trying to break through, to get her to admit what her stepfather had done to her. Meanwhile, Eames had arrived and was interviewing Josie, Stacy's mother, in the waiting room.

"My life has been about saving Stacy from herself," the woman said. "I homeschooled her in the 9th grade."

"Well, that can't have been easy with your new baby."

"We had good help," called Neil from the seat by the wall. He held his younger daughter on his lap. "We were all in Europe that year."

"Come here, Sophie, let Mommy tie your shoe." Josie went over to her little girl. She took her to the other row of chairs and sat her down.

"And they had me," announced the Grandmother, swooping in to hand her son a cup of coffee. "I have friends, we stayed in their villa. It was magnificent." She glanced over at the curtained off area. "Is that detective still in there with her?" she asked Eames.

"Yes."

"You can't hold Stacy to anything she says after what she's been through. But she'll be home, part of our family again. Like our time in Siena. That was real happiness."

The woman continued to reminisce about happier times, and Eames was relieved when Bobby marched over. Alex turned to him.

"Sh-she's very tired. She's trying to sleep. I wouldn't," he glanced particularly at Neil, "I wouldn't bother her."

Neil bristled, but at one glance from his mother, he smiled the pleasant smile and settled back into the chair once more.

Alex could read the frustration in Bobby's face. He hadn't gotten what he wanted from Stacy. He hadn't gotten enough from her. They said some kind of polite goodbye and headed outside.

"The car's over here," Alex told him, and he followed her. "What is it?"

"Uh, I… I think he sexually abused her. Her, and possibly others."

"Oh, God. Bobby?" She threw him a glance.

"She wouldn't tell me, but I… I saw enough. I want to check into it a little further."

"Mom homeschooled her in 9th grade. She was home all the time, certainly available."

"Yeah, we should… compare notes. Prob'ly check in with the Captain again." In the car, she watched him down a couple of antacid pills before they hit the road.