ON FIRE

Liar, liar, pants on fire
Your nose is longer than a telephone wire

If you keep on tellin' me those lies
Still goin' out with other guys
There'll come a day I'll be gone
Take my advice, won't be long

When that day comes, won't be mad
Be free of you, but I'll still be sad
In spite of your cheatin', still love you so
I'll be unhappy if I let you go

*The Castaways*


"When your Church is in distress, call us. We're the NYPD God Squad." Eames said like the voiceover in big budget tv ad. "What is this? Our 4th murder on holy ground?" She cast a sly glance to her right. Had she made him laugh? Had she? Had she? Even an upticked lip was everything. The gains were slight.

"Cases in total? Including or excluding this one?" He said tightly.

"Excluding."

Goren looked straight up his eyeballs dancing, tabulating. He did a great impression of an abacus. "Three inside churches. One involving a non-traditional religion. Two more with distinctly religious overtones."

"But if you count all of these fires individually we're up to 11. 11 crimes in churches. We'd better watch our asses. Brass might make us head a special Jesus taskforce." Her sly eyes wandered to the corners again, but his face was stony.

They were on their way back to 1PP after fire number eight. Now the perp was just phoning them in, lighting up the doors and the narthex. This pyromaniac didn't have any panache. It was entirely possible that they were dealing with mischief. Mischief gone wrong. One of the blazes had taken a life. They were here settle the mortal accounts of Saint Gerald's church secretary Margaret Collo.

It wasn't long before Eames was sitting in a seat inside 1PP, riveted to Goren's "recursive probabilities" His words, not hers. She would have just said patterns like a normal human being. She had to admit it was nice to watch him move, doing his thing, connecting visible and invisible dots. He was deep into the psychology of their firebug, taking it well beyond the Fire Marshall's tally of the ignition points.

"So this is the last fire that they set the other night." He held up a pushpin and put it very deliberately into the map.

"With a Molotov cocktail." Eames added for her own clarification.

"Now say a Molotov cocktail is the signature of one partner. So then the other four fires were planned by the other one. Now… There was a crime scene photo of the sanctuary at Saint Gerald's..." He looked at her expectantly.

Eames fished the image out of a file. "This here?"

"Yeah. He lit a fire at four places inside the church." Goren used a red magic marker to clearly illustrate the burn path inside Saint Gerald's. Then repeated his supposition on a city map at the four 'Molotov as incendiary' churches. It was a letter Z. Two big red letter Zs echoed across both mediums. Eames bit her tongue. She mimicked Goren's intellectual gravity. But she really, really, really wanted to say fires by Zorro. Solemn Detective Goren had no freaking idea how close he'd come to hearing fires by Zorro. She should be in front of an auditorium accepting an award for Restraint in a Clearly Comedic Situation. Their perp was Zorro. Zorro is loose in Brooklyn.

But she read the room.

The energy wasn't remotely jovial.

Still she couldn't help but feel optimistic. Bobby was softening to her, she felt it.

Deakins joined them. He looked awful. Grey and pinched and miserable. Goren could have rightly taken his magic marker and added a red Z to their captain. From ear to ear, diagonally through navel, then from hip to hip. Deakins looked like his insides were being flambéd. Goren looked like a man with intimate knowledge of how to flambé the intestines of a superior officer. Goren sized up his nemesis, a quick flick of the eyes, a joyless once over.

Then he ceded the entire half of the room.

He tucked himself into a chair behind the war table.

It was low ground, but safe ground. Easily defensible. After all, strategic retreat was important to any military offensive. So was feigning weakness.

Deakins sized up all their red Zs "Maybe it's a pattern, maybe it's a lotta nothing." He brought his reductive eye to bear.

Even Eames could feel how dismissive and basic he was being. She prodded him to think in 3 dimensions, "Something else set the Saint Gerald's fire apart it was started using a church vestment. With the other fires it was rags and old hand towels."

"The Lutheran Sunday service begins with a procession up from the back of the church up to the chancel." Goren said. He had erected his favourite shield. A book. It seemed like this detective could retrieve books at will from some intellectual vortex. Goren dwelled exclusively in the fourth dimension. Only his fingers betrayed him. He fingered the pages too industriously. Making a mess of the paper, rather then seeking a passage. No one else in the room was astute enough to know that this was the measure of a liar, animated hand movement. He couldn't quite stomach the sight of Deakins. But Deakins beside Eames completely destroyed his equilibrium.

"Along the same line the fire was set." Deakins said. Now he was seeing the recursive behaviour.

"In the procession they carry the cross, the incense, the candles. The acolytes, they're usually young people, teenagers. And they wear vestments." Goren said.

"A kid with a beef against the church. Or a minister?" Deakins voice rose in question. The detectives didn't have that answer, so they had their marching orders.


The Art of War Goren Style:

There will be primary, secondary and tertiary accomplices

"Bobby!"

"Declan." Goren gripped his cell phone. He had spoken to Declan Gage more in the last 3 months then he had in the last 10 years. "Where in the world are you this time?" He asked, knowing exactly what would happen next.

"Okay. But no mistakes. Last time you were dismal."

Goren rolled his eyes. "You know, we don't have to play this game." Declan ignored him.

"If I say Alkebulan, you say?"

"Africa."

"If I say pangolin scales, you say?"

"The Sub Saharan region." Goren replied.

"If I say Yamoussoukro, you say?"

"Côte d'Ivoire."

"Good. Good! Now try this, the topic is international law enforcement. If I say DGPN you say?"

"General Directorate of the National Police." It rolled off Goren's tongue. Exactly the way it had during exam prep for CID. They'd had to memorize all international jurisdictions and the names of their respective law-enforcement agencies. The ones that liaised with the US State Department. But this particular agency was a trick question. In Côte d'Ivoire the name of the was written in French, hence the disconnected acronym.

Declan cackled like a six century old witch. "You've still got it!" And Bobby felt the same flush of pride that he'd felt as a young man. A compliment from Declan Gage was heady stuff.

Once, about 3 years ago he'd been talking to Declan just like this. And Alex had been home. She'd eavesdropped on the conversation, listening to their bizarre back and forth. Afterward she'd said "What the hell were you two playing? Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?" At the time Bobby hadn't known what that was. Now he thought about those words every single time he thought of Dec. It was even more satisfying that Declan had no idea he was playing a juvenile game popularized by a public broadcaster, since arguably the two things Dec hated most in the world were: children and pseudo-socialism. Declan shot him questions for one reason. Declan was being Declan; pretentious.

Sometimes, while they were speaking Goren even imagined Dec dressed like Carmen Sandiego. Although Declan favoured wrinkled linen suits and fedoras, a trench coat was not outside his sartorial scope. God does he love his affected props. Canes, suspenders, 18th century wire rimmed spectacles, bow ties...

Bow ties.

Goren was immediately propelled back to another conversation with Alex. She had once said, "Every delusional psychopath should wear a bowtie" Goren hadn't considered Declan at the time. And neither had Alex. She had never met Dec, so it had not been a subtle dig. At the time Goren's mind had flitted lightly over Theodore Roosevelt and Louis Farrakhan - both prolific bow tie wearers, but remained resolutely on Bernard Fremont, who'd been the subject of their case.

But now…

Was Declan a psychopath?

No.

Narcissistic, definitely. Somewhere on the Antisocial Personality Spectrum, maybe. But not a psychopath. To be safe Goren had double checked his conclusions with the DSM-IV. He was right. Even factoring for personal bias, Declan was firmly in the Cluster B range of disorder. The dramatic, emotional, erratic cluster.

"So you're in the Ivory Coast." Goren said at last. Because if Declan was Carmen Sandiego, then he was the ACME gumshoe that won the game.

"Mmmm… They asked me to come in and consult. Serial murderer. Motive... mmmm… Unclear. Obviously it's tension about wildlife trafficking. But what is it really? What is the human motivation? It's a mess. Between EAGLE and the cartels. So many suspects. You know how it is in these coloured countries. Crooked politics. Not one person with my intelligence or experience. I'm doing everything."

Bobby considered the quality of that statement. It should be written on Declan's epitaph. It was the best singular example of his dysfunction. Goren knocked the points off in his head:

It was presumptuous

It was grandiose

It was racist

It was confusing

"EAGLE? You mean the anti-trafficking group?" Goren asked.

"Yes. The Eco Activists. You know how they behave. Barely better then criminals themselves."

"I do. Barely." Goren repeated the word in Dec's waspish tone. But Declan didn't rise to humour.

Instead the older man 'ho ho'd' like Santa, "That's why you have get back in the game. Keep your skills sharp. What are you really doing there at the NYPD? Nothing. Nothing for the quality of life on the planet. You're just toiling away in that burg."

Only Declan Gage would call New York City a burg.

And Bobby knew exactly why. Declan left a trail of disgruntled people wherever he went. The last time he'd been in the city, he'd had some run-ins with the Board of Directors at John Jay University. He was a tenured professor there. And Declan thought tenure meant he could act with impunity. The board did not share that opinion. Now Dec was still tenured, but he took frequent 'sabbaticals' to work abroad.

To Bobby, his mentor's cantankerous behaviour was absolute gold. This was why he'd been in touch so much recently. It wasn't nostalgia. It wasn't for friendship. It wasn't for war stories. It was to see how the man's mind worked in live action, rather than recollection. Especially now that Declan was even more successful, even more narcissistic. For months Dec had unwittingly been coaching Goren on how to manipulate Frank Adair.

"There are 8.5 million people in this 'burg' Dec." He fought back.

"Oh pish. Life is about variety and the pleasures of the flesh. When the last time you even got laid? Years I'll bet. Or.. Or…" He laughed. "Or with some tragic secretary."

Goren smiled. "Focus on your own sexlife."

"Me? I had ménage à trois with some beautiful ebony sisters only a couple nights ago. From the Mandinka tribe I think. They couldn't get enough. Although their preoccupation with my testicals was unnerving."

Goren shook his head slowly, soundlessly. His features frozen in a kind of horrified glee.

"Tell me." Declan persisted. "What have you really got there? What is holding you to that city? Is it your mother? Grow up."

"Leave my mother out of this." Goren let his voice drop.

"She's why you went running home from... from Germany all those years ago. You know Bobby, there are numerous studies you should read on the Oedipal complex."

"Declan enough." He growled.

"Fine. It must be that partner then. What was her name?"

Mind games. Bobby reminded himself. He'd told Declan Alex's name at least 40 times over the last five years. "Eames. And yes I like my partner. We work well together."

"Jo says you're fucking."

Bobby actually jumped in his chair. "You talked to Jo?"

"She calls me once a week. We'd talk even more, if I didn't let her go to voicemail. She is my daughter."

In the very loosest sense of the word Bobby thought. Remembering that evening in the airport, how painfully uncomfortable it had been. How he'd held every muscle in rigid tension for three hours. How he'd resolved to confront Declan. Then in subsequent days scrapped that resolution. There were a number of factors that contributed to that decision. His fairly good relationship with his mentor had been the most salient one. But also the fact that he never saw Dec, that there was a lack of corroboration for Jo's story, and lastly that Jo was a woman now. She had to define her relationship with her own father, not him. And based on this she was clearly still in Declan's thrall. She was still locked in an unhealthy worship dynamic. There wasn't a recovery program in the world that didn't start with; admit the problem.

"Is Jo right?" Declan pushed on. "Are you? Are you fraternizing with your partner?"

"No. I'm not." Goren quickly changed the subject. He didn't like the way Declan used the word fraternizing instead of in a relationship. Declan always chose his words very deliberately. "I had no idea Jo talked about me so often."

"Jo loves to talk about you. You made a real impression that night you had dinner."

"You mean the night you stood us up?"

"For the last time. I. Did. Not. Email. You. Or promise to meet you for dinner in an airport." He said airport like it was alleyway or soup kitchen.

Goren toggled his head in disbelief. Declan was an ace at forgetting everything that didn't serve his self-interests.

"You know Bobby. I'd like to meet this partner that you're not sleeping with. Jo says you're making headlines together."

"Maybe. Maybe the next time you're in town." Goren said noncommittally, his knuckles white from his grip on the phone.

Declan picked up on every nuance, even from thousands of miles away. "You'll never let me meet her. She knows were all the bodies are buried."


Eames pulled up to curb in front of the Reid residence in Brooklyn. The childhood home of Justin Reid. He was the newest benefactor to Saint Gerald's Lutheran Church and it's come-lately youth leader. Goren had profiled the man. And it was none too flattering. Reid was a peacock. He was one of those individuals who had 'made it big.' His public persona was passive aggressive: be like me, riches are bestowed on the worthy, and here, have some teachable moments.

Goren abhorred men like that. The if a charitable donation is made in a forest does anyone hear? type.

They rang the bell and were ushered into a modest but loved, family home. When Eames got a load of Mrs. Reid senior she immediately played the role of beige paint. Meek, mild and invisible. A woman like this, a tigress in heat, did not want a sexual rival in the room. Goren took the lead.

"You're ah… Justin's stepmother." He was looking at Regina Reid with speculative eyes. She was an attractive woman. But she knew it. A kind of hard graft beauty. Calculated and pompous, not wild and fresh. He had to admit, she typified the city woman. He didn't see many wild, fresh beauties on the streets of New York. Women here were feats of architecture; some rising up, others going to ruin, but all heavily fortified, just like the landscape.

"I hope I don't look old enough to be his real mother do I?" She said like a throaty Jessica Rabbit. Then fiddled with her extraordinarily long golden hair. Perhaps a shade too long for a woman north of 48. The feature effectively timestamped her glory days, like a middle-aged man wearing a Varsity letterman jacket. Goren played to her conceit.

"Well obviously no."

"Justin's mother died of cancer." Terry Reid added soberly.

"Terry and I got married when Justin was 14."

"Well, he's done well for himself. He moved back, bought the biggest house in the neighbourhood, beautiful wife and child. That might rub some people the wrong way." Eames suggested.

"I wouldn't be surprised if it did. He's always trying to impress people. If they only knew." Regina Reid was a dramatic woman. Her pouty lips, her gestures, her side swept face, her tapered fingers always entangled in that hair. But her husband Terry was different. He was a dark haired, sturdy, steadfast type. With strong echoes of Italy in his features. He wore a perpetual grin. Some people were like that, always on the cusp of amusement. Goren profiled him immediately as a man who saw shenanigans everywhere, but completely missed the devilment, the very real darkside.

"If they only knew what, Ms. Reid?" Eames pushed, she could play games too. This was one Goren called: deferential use of honorific titles. The rule was when questioning someone with a fragile ego, you never called them by their first name.

"How thoughtless he can be. You know, like any child. That's what I meant."

Weird.

Goren and Eames locked eyes. A look that meant divide and conquer. "Ah, Ms Reid if it's no trouble I could really use a glass of water." Eames bore her away. While Goren tried get the husband to elucidate the wife.

"She took you by surprise didn't she. You know, one minute Justin's a hero…"

Terry laughed. "I think I know what that's about."

"You do? What is it?"

"The other night Justin and his wife Noreen came over. Dinner was on the table and him and Noreen were…" He cleared his throat suggestively, "you know, busy in the powder room."

Goren nodded expansively. Now he knew exactly what this case was all about. Sexual tension, sexual deviance, sexual lies. It would seem that sex was doomed to be his Waterloo. And not wholesome married missionary. Exactly this kind of sex, with it's dirty kinky energy. Robert Goren was battling sex on all fronts and losing spectacularly.

But it was good to know the real ignition point of their church fires.


It was 3am in a barrio in Weehawken and Goren was considering his faith.

Qui tenetur ad finem, tenetur ad media. Or, he who is bound to reach a certain end, is bound to employ the means to attain it.

He had first encountered teachings on the near occasion of sin at Sunday school. The hour long class that took place while his mother was in morning mass. Every Sunday after the processional, all of the children would be called forth to the altar. A bunch of shy babies being shoved between the shoulder blades, out of pews, by grateful parents. A group of 3 to 12 year olds, bleary-eyed and fresh from their beds walking toward a holy man with a big voice. When Bobby remembered it was always pagan. Never the warm words of Jesus Christ "let the children come to me, do not stop them." No. He saw the imagery on the Judgement card in the Rider-Waite tarot deck; people walking naked towards a clarion and the thin shim between life and death.

Then those kids (of which he was one) were rounded up and herded like sheep by a group of young border collie women. Then they were led single file down the church aisle. In the sub-basement of Saint Maria Goretti they would play, and craft, and learn about the tenets of Catholicism. They learned about sin, which was defined by the teachers from catechism as: any willful thought, word, deed or omission contrary to the law of God. But there was nuance. Bobby learned that sin was not a static concept it was a continuum. They discussed the idea of placing yourself deliberately in proximity to sin. The near occasion of sin. Goren liked the near occasion of sin. It was the only concept in Catholicism that had stayed with him in a practical way. He liked the idea that we have control over our actions. That we can sense our proximity to sin and retreat. And he would go one further, and say that if we persist sin leaves a detectable residue. He'd built an entire police career on that value.

The near occasion of sin.

Even though he had given up on God at age 13.

Young Bobby hadn't been capable of sustaining his connection to the church without Father Krause's guiding hand. So he'd traded in his liturgical vesture and had never led another processional. Almost simultaneously his mother's disorganized delusional behaviour had spiralled out of control. Overnight God seemed to fall out of favour with her. God was no longer her touchstone. She took on the role of the omnipotent. She created her own prayers. She officiated her own living room services. She doled out her own corporal punishment. She favoured kneeling. Sometimes making him kneel until his patellas burned. She hit him, never excessively, just enough to ensure obedience.

But then a sea change. He became a teenager. And it had brought him gifts. A smart mouth, a cocky middle finger that flew up constantly, a font of defiance. But most transformed was his physical size. In a blink he'd gone from a manageable 5'6" to over 6'. And overnight the despot was decapitated. His mother couldn't make him to do anything he didn't want to. Of course she could still use psychological thumbscrews. So Bobby had taken to getting out of bed at the crack of dawn on Sunday (Sundays triggered Frances) and leaving the house without a word, so there would be no talk of religion. No forced mass.

Today, Goren was fixed on his path. He was simply uncomfortable with it. So, instead of sleeping, tonight he was thinking hard, seeking some kind of reconciliation with his intentions. Tomorrow he was going to do something unforgivable. Goren lay on his queen sized pull-out sofa bed. His legs were crossed at the ankle, his fingers knitted behind his head. It seemed silly to fixate on ancient spiritual pain. But on this, the eve of sin, he was feeling more sentimental then usual. It should come as no great surprise given his upbringing, that he was still a disciple. Goren lived a completely secular life by all accounts. Except somewhere deep, where he still abided by all the populist values of religion. He still believed that we are born soiled and each day struggle to avoid returning to the filth. That we are mites to an all-knowing and all-seeing, unimpeachable God.

He believed a lot of odd things. And they mostly served him well.

That thought flooded him with warmth.

I believe a lot of odd things and they have served me well. This was as close as he was going to get to contentment on this near occasion of sin. He wasn't winning at life right now, but he had more of the criteria necessary to win then most people. He had an excellent mind, a beautiful child and a calling. He also had time and potential.

His body was ready.


Deakins was at IAB fighting for his good name so Carver was standing in.

It still made for tight quarters inside Visiting Officers room 6 as they went over the case again.

Goren looked at the Assistant District Attorney like a specimen pinned to a board. Goren was pensive today. Far more then usual, which was saying something. He was remembering the halcyon days when Carver had been the only married man Alex was screwing. He had wanted her so much back then. Alex had been an exquisite challenge. Four years ago this vignette would've sent Goren into orbit. The way she was leaning into Ron. Carver's Pisan lean toward her. There was still a magnetism between them, Bobby could see that. He considered briefly that she might have rebounded with her old lover. He got a case of septic jealousy. No. Alex wouldn't do that. Besides, Goren had heard rumours that something was going on between Ron and fellow ADA, Alexandra Borgia. Goren considered that. Could this be his first case of onomastic transference? Jesus. Imagine if Carver is so bent on my Alex that any Alex will do.

Goren was so wrapped up in his inner world the he barely noticed that Eames was speaking. "From mid November to late December Regina's husband was in St. Louis for job training. Regina stayed home with 14-year-old Justin." Eames turned to Carver. "She probably got pregnant by him then, it's why she'd lie about when Glynn was conceived. She might've even induced the birth to time it right."

"To keep the paternity secret from her husband." Carver knew a little something about infidelity.

"And Justin. The way she kept emphasizing Glynn's date of birth to Justin. He might not know either." Goren eased into the speculation party, but hugging a wall, playing with his papers again.

"Poor Glynn." Eames said. "He's traumatized now imagine when he finds out who his father is."

"A photo of him 20 years ago." Goren presented them with a tea stained document. "The procession is turning right, at the front of the church."

"Nowadays they take a left turn, maybe that's why Glynn set the fire where he did." Eames suggested.

"Yeah, but if he was symbolically targeting Justin, then he would set the fires according to the path that Justin walked 20 years ago." Goren moved to the bulletin board and pointed at the photo marked, 'Alter Left.' He squinted. It depicted a ragged hole in the church floor. "This spot here. This is where he put most of the gas, it burned right through the floor. There's something here. There are three pipes, water pipes.

"A baptismal pool. I'd guess for immersion baptisms." Carver was also a devout Lutheran. Even if his morality was selective.

And on a flash of insight Goren got it. "That's what Glynn was targeting, baptisms. His own birth." So many secrets. In infancy Glynn had been baptized in lies. Then he'd grown up immersed in that pool of secrets.

Goren channeled the fire of their perpetrator.

Glynn had been innocent.

Now he was worse than all of them.


The Art of War Goren Style:

Compromise your values. Your body is a vessel for the goal

Goren was on his way to Staten Island in the middle of a bomb cyclone. The first five inches of snow had already fallen, another 15 were expected. Then around midnight an ice storm would be the climatological coup de gras. It was expected to take out power, fell trees and make this small section of the world impassible. The ferry he was a passenger on was already running on a modified schedule. Everyone was battening down the hatches. But not Goren. Goren wrapped his gloved fingers around the railing. He was the only one who dared to ride outside. It felt like assault and battery by snow cone. He was beaded with ice and burned by wind and still he refused to go back in. He needed the distraction.

He was putting himself in a pickle.

The last news reports said that the lower level of the Verrazano was closed indefinitely because of a pile up. There were no buses, transport trucks, or large commuter vehicles being permitted on the bridge. This was a night of fate and furies, it was as close as his city ever came to sleeping. And he had no way back. He was about be marooned on Staten Island. An objective assessor might have urged him to go home now. But he was beyond counselling. There was no naivete in the grim lines of determination on his face. He had chosen this night. Hell, he'd practically done a pagan dance to the Gods of inclement weather. His goal was to be stranded. It ensured his commitment to the plan. There was no exit strategy. He was all in.

He disembarked and found a cab with relative ease. Then he endured a long, expensive, profanity laced crawl along the apocalyptically deserted streets. Destination: Huguenot. The house looked different coated in four distinct layers of snow - encrusted, firm, compacted and now fluffy. The shutters had white whiskery eyebrows. The path was unshoveled. But he persisted. He rang the doorbell.

Liz yanked the door open. "What are you doing here?"

He tried not to let his teeth chatter. No weakness before the enemy. "Nice to see you too Liz. I'm here to get my son."

She rolled her eyes. "Julia got off work early to get the kids. Jude is gone. Jesus don't you and Alex talk."

He'd known all that. "Not as much."

"Yeah I heard something was up." She leaned casually against the doorframe, warm air at her back, as he lost all sensation in his extremities. Really it was freezing.

"Can I come in?" He finally had to ask.

She stepped back lips pursed.

"Alex hasn't been chatty about the schedule lately." He said. A lie.

"Yeah well." Liz shrugged. And it reminded him of her.

"Maybe Bill can give me a lift back to the ferry. I know it's horrible out there but…" Goren knew Bill was out of town. And he was pushing her buttons on purpose. She had cast him as 'a taker' in her mind and he was going to be as entitled as he possibly could.

"Nope Bill is out of town until tomorrow." She peered around him through the snow packed sidelight of the front door. "If his flight can get out, in this."

"Dammit." Goren tossed his head in mock frustration.

"Annabell is down for the night. I can't leave and I won't wake her." Goren sensed how much secret pleasure she got in refusing to help him. "Call a cab."

Liz kept him corralled in the entry. She seemed determined not to budge. A soccer mom sentry, guarding the three foot gap that separated him from the rest of the house. The message was plain: go away. Goren actually found it amusing how much she disliked him. He was used to rubbing people the wrong way. But her animus was a mystery. It predated their childcare agreement. It predated any real conversation between them. It was utterly groundless. Yes, of course it was an imposition to leave Jude here so often. But he knew she loved Jude. He'd watched Liz hold and kiss his son like he was her own, many times. Even her relationship with Alex was thawing. But not him. He remained hemorrhoid on her ass.

"Can I come in and make the call?" He held up the phone he'd recently turned off. "Dead."

"Oh fine." She huffed and stepped aside again. He shucked his wet stuff and followed her.

He had to admit. She looked good. Liz had way of accentuating her femininity that Alex rarely bothered with. Liz kept her hair longer and always feathery and soft. It wasn't much thicker than Alex's, but it was clearly the playground of a very skilled, very expensive, pair of hands. Her hairdresser had recently added auburn highlights and used layers to add weight and shine. Whoever he was, he had a divine grasp of angles, light refraction and dimension.

Liz was wearing a grey velour tracksuit. The zipper kissed her cleavage. When she turned away he read the word Juicy - in a customized black monotype Old English font - written across her backside. And yes, he immediately knew the name of the font, but not the brand. She led him to the phone and he watched that word 'Juicy' sway. It was a good ass. Fuller then Alex's, Liz was fuller in general. But by no means fat.

Now it's time to start staring. He told himself. Though his eyeballs had already gotten and implemented that memo.

"Here." She slapped a cordless phone in his hand.

"Thanks." He looked her up and down slowly.

He saw her head jerk back. And her eyes narrow. But he was already dialing, while staring down at his damp navy toes on her beige berber. Goren got exactly the answer he was expecting from three cab companies; reduced fleet and wait times exceeding two hours. He told her as much apologetically.

She sighed like a steam engine. Then bit her lip. Alex bites the other side he thought. "Okay fine. Ya want something to eat? Drink?" She said with resignation.

"Coffee if you have it." He wanted to stay stone cold sober.

He followed her into the kitchen. One of those grand ones with an island and barstools. "You can go sit on the couch." She said sharply with a tone of heightened awareness. And he saw that she did something else Alex didn't, Liz responded to men. She couldn't stop herself. She wanted their physical approval. It was plainly written in her Herculean efforts to be pretty. Alex exercised rigid emotional control. As a woman it made her frigid. In the NYPD it made her the best.

"Here you go." Liz set a mug down on the coffee table in front of him. And he took the opportunity to look straight down her top. Her breasts were hanging there in black lace like small weighted pendulums. "So I guess it's over with you and Alex." She snarked.

"Why do you say that?" He asked taking a cautious sip. It was really good. She made an outstanding cup of coffee. Warm, bittersweet and smoky with topnotes of cacao and cherry. He melted into the couch the moment it hit his cold guts.

"Because you're checking me out." She was blunt.

"No I'm not."

"Okay sure." Her lips twitched. Then she sat in the chair across from him - a grey, tight back, button tufted, ode to mid-century modern design. Though it had probably been built yesterday. It was trendy just like her. "You know, you don't look so good. Your nose is still red. You look tired. Gettin' old." She said. There was a cruelty in it but humour too.

"Thanks."

"Being a cop," She shook her head with distaste. "If the bullet doesn't get you, the hours and the diet will. I saw it with my dad. He was no fun. Now he's losing his mind." She curled up like a tabby and took a pleased sip from her own cup.

"I'm getting over a cold." He enunciated. Actually it was an allergic reaction. He had induced it with a ziplock full of cat fur, while she'd been making the coffee. He'd wanted evoke sympathy. But clearly it was the wrong tack with this woman.

"Sure you are."

Okay, time to get meaner about her Achilles heel, her appearance he thought. "It's brave of you to call your ass Juicy. Any more brands upstairs? Maybe Hefty or Plenty?"

"I knew you were looking! You pervert! I invite you into my house and this is my thanks? You've just forgotten what a real woman looks like."

He dialled up the intensity of his gaze.

"Stop it."

"What?

"Staring."

"Do you want me to go?" He asked because this was going to be consensual.

"Go where? Out there and die of hypothermia in a ditch? Just...Just sit there and shut up. And stop staring."

"I'm not staring. You're just uncomfortable around me. You hate me."

"No I don't." Even that irritated her.

"Then me you must really like me."

"Errrrrr wrong again." Now she was a game show buzzer. "They actually pay you for this crap pop psychology?" And for some reason, when she said that he knew he had her. It was a feeling honed from years of gotchas.

"So where is Bill this time?" He niggled.

She eyed him warily, "Not far. Phillie."

"What does he do again?"

"Corporate sales rep."

"For?"

"You ask a lot of goddamn questions."

"I'm a detective."

"Well this is not a crime scene." She barked. And launched to her feet. Shoving her hands into the velour pockets of her hoodie. Her looked her up and down again really slowly. He affected lust. But said,

"How about getting me a sandwich? Since you're on your feet."

She unleashed a tirade. "What is this? The fifties?!Is this what you've been doing to my sister? Making her your maid? No wonder you're having problems." She went back into the kitchen. He followed again. She has some deeply anachronistic programming embedded in subconscious. She told him off, she actively disliked him, and yet was still going to make the sandwich. Goren loved this kind of paradox. Sensitivity to gender roles he catalogued. Go harder on the husband.

"Oh for fu… sake." She railed at the sight of him coming through the kitchen door, like someone trying to curb a swearing habit. "Stay on the couch." Goren was infinitely pleased. She was so flustered. No, Liz didn't hate him. He she was attracted to him. He leaned against the counter nice and close.

"How will you know what I want if I stay on the couch?"

"This isn't a restaurant. You're getting roast beef on whole wheat."

"Some Dijon?"

"Honestly." She was about to have a conniption. "You appear on my doorstep in the middle of the night, to get your kid who I take care of I might add. First you want a coffee, then you want a sandwich. And now you're asking me if I have your favourite condiments?!"

"No pressure." He edged a little closer. About two feet from her sandwich assembly station.

"Go." She lashed out, pushing him backwards, her hand on his abdomen hitting somewhere between the fourth and fifth buttons of his J. Crew cotton dress shirt.

Houston we have contact He thought wryly. "Just keeping you company." He pulled up a barstool. "I've always wondered what that would be like," he resumed the conversation about Bill. "Flying around the country for work. Airline concierge, gold star lounges, racking up those travel points, no wife and kids."

She thunked the plate down in front of him without an iota of delicacy. The bread fell off half the sandwich. Then she moved to the opposite side of the room "It's not that glamorous."

"He's free." Goren took a big bite. This much was true. He was perpetually hungry. His taste buds were not disappointed. It was a lean cut of rump, spicy mayo, thick sharp white cheddar, sweet chilli jam, tomatoes, lettuce, on two slabs of thick cut peasant bread. It was gorgeous. He thought of his crappy new apartment and barren fridge. This was the good life.

"He's not free, he's married."

"Who would ever know? He could just..." Goren mimed slipping off a wedding ring and dropping it into his breast pocket.

"Also, you're welcome." She gestured at his food.

"Thank you." He took another monster bite. "Why don't you come sit over here?" He tapped the stool beside him.

"Why don't you fuck off?" She was harsh. He'd hit a lot of nerves tonight.

He put down the sandwich, stood, went over, and took her shocked hand in his. She pulled it away furiously and wiped it on her pants. "Don't touch me." But she said the words with such weak resolve that he felt confident ignoring them. He took her hand again and tugged her to the seat beside his.

"That's better." He patted her upper thigh.

She was getting his intention now.

"You know I'm married. And you're with my sister. Never figured you for a cheater."

"I haven't been with Alex for over 3 months. I've moved out. Besides, what happens in a snowstorm stays in a snowstorm. Kind of like a business trip."

He fixed that stare on her again. He saw a flush climb up her neck and into the apples of her cheeks. She really liked him. Wow. Even he hadn't known the scope of it. It was true, some people agitated others for attention. Attention-Seeking Behaviour it was aptly called. But Liz was reasonably well adjusted. She wasn't on the excessive side of the spectrum. Goren didn't sense any of the dysfunction of trauma. Liz was just an ordinary woman with something stuck in her craw. Maybe Bill's behaviour. Maybe being housebound. Maybe watching others around her be happier with a lot less.

Now Goren unleashed his focus full throttle. Not just his eyes, but his mind. That redness, that blood flowing up into her face was the equivalent of a hardening penis. Not always, obviously. A flush could mean anything. But in this unique case it was burgeoning arousal. Then the profile clicked in:

Primary Immediate Family: Working mother, ignored by a father who had more in common with other daughter, overlooked by the older children, conventional, reward driven, mediocre student.

Secondary Immediate Family: Wed to a man that travelled extensively, who is possibly having an affair, primary (often sole) caregiver to one child, traditional household roles, fixated on physical beauty, rude, blunt, controversial speech, chronically unhappy.

"Now I see what Alex gets out of this." Liz filled the strange silence.

"What do you mean?" He asked taking another obscene bite.

"You're odd. You swallow people with your eyes."

"Thanks."

"That's not a compliment." She was gruff. "Most people…"

"I'm not most people."

"Clearly."

"So." He said turning so his knees brushed her. Tilting his head toward her. "Do you want to stick it to Bill?"

"Do you want to stick it to Alex?"

Both questions hit too close to home for each of them. So they dangled there, flaccid.

"I don't think we should do this." She said. "I don't even like you." She unfurled her legs like a great flag, beneath the cantilevered bar top. Then crossed them again very tightly. Tension.

"I don't like you either."

Her gasp was pure diva. "So… so no emotions?"

"No emotions. Unless they're toxic."

She smiled now and it was genuine. "Okay come on." He could feel her resolve. She stood to lead him somewhere. Maybe to a bed? Goren rose but planted his feet. He looked longingly at his remaining gnawed quarter of a sandwich. So this was happening now. Sometimes he wished he wasn't so damn good.

"No. Beds." He stated firmly.

"Listen here you pain in the…" She gave it to him. He grabbed her shoulder and deftly unzipped her top.

As intended that threw her off. She covered her breasts with one forearm and gave him another shove. He pulled her against him and bit her collarbone. She squealed. He held her hands behind her back and dodged her vicious knee. "Do you want this or not?" He asked.

"I want to to be treated like a woman not a chicken wing." She flapped her elbows in consternation.

"Let Bill screw you in a bed." Beds were for another kind of sex.

"Where then? My daughter…" He slapped a hand over her mouth and still 'cuffing' her wrists. He perp walked her to the powder room and threw the lock.

"What?! No."

He was channeling Justin Reid. The suspect from their case. Hearing about the spontaneity of that toilet mating had made celibate Goren so jealous. He spun Liz quickly. She lost her footing and grabbed the bowl of the sink, which breached her just below the belly button. "Is this the kind of kinky shit you're doing with my sister?"

"Voiceless alveopalatal fricative." He whispered in her ear.

"What the hell is that? Voodoo?"

"It means shhhhhhhhhh." He said, knowing a deeper dive into the phonetic alphabet would be wasted on this simple woman. His intelligence had no currency here. Without further ceremony he pulled down her Juicy Couture pants and lacy black underwear. That aggressive sort of move usually made Alex melt. But it made Liz spit shrapnel like a homemade bomb.

She tried to round on him, but he kept her pinned to the sink. She was a hellion. Whipping swiftly back and forth, all the heads of the hydra trying to strike. But she was quite small and no match for his superior strength. When at last she settled, she turned her face to glare at him. He grabbed her mouth with his. He pulled at her lips. She responded. A weird angry suckling ensued. He hadn't intended to kiss her at all, but he now saw how impossible that resolution was. Kissing was a gateway. She tasted like coffee and anger. He rubbed his sheathed cock against her bare backside. They stared in the gilt framed mirror. Gilt framed aggression. Goren had been worried that that he wouldn't be able to get it up. Liz had never aroused him. So he'd scored some little blue pills just in case. But now, moving against her tanned tush he knew he wouldn't need to take them. After all this friction he was more than ready.

"Facing forward or backward?" He asked her reflection.

"Forward." She said, and when he turned her, she hit him so solidly in the face that he almost lost his hard-on.

"Why?" He held his jaw baffled.

"Don't take away my options." She yelled then flinched as the cold porcelain touched her back. "You're lucky I still want it." She said. As if her needs were the only ones in the universe.

"And you call me a freak." He muttered.

"Shut up. Shut up and now do it now. Before I change my mind."

"But you aren't…" ready.

"I said NOW!"

So he fumbled to it, shoving his hand into his pants pocket looking for a condom. Then he dropped trou, rolled it on, and plunged into her without any preliminaries. She moaned and wrapped her legs around him, her backside barely clinging to the edge of the sink. He was wrong she was very ready. Their bodies made squelching noises like someone walking in a couple of waterlogged mukluks. She gets off on fighting with me. The horny little bi...

"Call me names. C'mon call me names." She demanded as if reading his mind.

He did. He said all the nasty things he could think of.

Bobby soon found that Liz's sex style was bossy. "Harder! Harder!" So he planted a palm on the wall, and the other at the small of her back and hammered into her. He knocked the tap into the on position. Imagine if her kid woke and thought her mom was being murdered. Liz didn't just screech like a banshee, she gave instructions in pairs "lower, lower." and "to the left, to the left, uh, uh, right there, right there." Soon she sank her manicured claws into his buttcheeks and came with a howl. She tossed her head back, and he could feel her furiously bearing down on him.

But the instant before he could follow she pushed him backward. He came right out of her, bobbing around in the cool air.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Her antics didn't get him off. She was too selfish.

"Anal." She said "I want anal." Then she turned around, slapped a bare manicured foot on the toilet bowl lid, and tucked the small of her back, presenting both holes like a cat in heat.

"Are you sure?" He paused. The last time he'd done this was ages ago, with a beautiful Alawite Turkish girl while he'd been stationed abroad in his 20s. Fadwa. He'd read the Qur'an for her. She had been ethereal in her beauty - disney princess meets bohemian charmer. But also modern and headstrong about her sexuality. She had been expected to maintain her maidenhead for her people (who believed in the ancient theatre of hymenal blood on the marital sheets). In kinky defiance she granted her beaus rear entry. Unfortunately, subsequent years of dating had taught Goren that most women avoided anal like a visit to the gynaecologist. "Are you sure?" He repeated.

"Of course I'm sure. I just dropped a deuce and had a shower."

He blinked. "Um, not what I meant. But okay."

"Do it! Do it!" Then she quickly added. "Gently. Gently."

At the risk of being a porn cliché he spat on his hand, reached down and mixed it with her own contributions. But he soon found that Liz had no backdoor resistance at all. She knew herself. She knew what got her off, and she was scary confident about it. He had never done this with Alex. He fought to clear his mind. To relax as he eased in. Not to buck with delight. It all came flooding back. So tight. Mind blowingly tight. It was like a velvet bear trap had sprung along the length of him.

Beneath him was a tacky one woman cheer squad. "You're so big! So big." And Goren, for the first time in his life felt completely psychologically free. Utter liberation from his normative mind. Not one worry about morality, or her feelings, or the state of the world, or the state of the condom, or knocking her up.

Best. Thing. Ever.

He came quickly. And harder than he ever had in his life. That thought (if he'd been capable of thought) would have felt like a betrayal so far beyond the one he'd come here to undertake. But for once he wasn't thinking. And he couldn't help it. This was purely physiological. The sensations kept reverberating through his abdomen like the echo in a canyon. He was still grinding into her fair bottom a full minute later. Spurting and spurting. Still wracked by the power of the same steaming orgasm, shivering in his shoulders. Eyes clamped, head back, gratuitously enjoying the pressure. And Liz was there, underneath him, with her head nearly in the sink, squawking pervertedly to high heaven.

It was gross.

It was glorious.


Saint Gerald's still looked like a crime scene. Some restorations had begun, demo mostly, but the indelible marks of fire remained. They would forever remain. Even when it was clean, oiled and pious again.

Physically the baptismal font was being moved. All of the century's old oak was being replaced. And a memorial plaque was going up in honour of Margaret Collo, the victim. But there were tags of spiritual burden left on everyone. The congregation would learn about the perverse family drama that had played out here. A youth leader would be revealed as a false idol. For this community there would always be a before the fire and an after the fire.

Goren stepped into Regina Reid. He stepped into her hard. And before his eyes she became the frail human monster that he was so accustomed to seeing. Bulging forehead veins, a Quasimodo hunch, saline soaked cheeks and transparent motives. There was no hint of the bombshell that had twirled her flaxen locks at him. "Your husband went away, he left you with your resentful stepson. You needed to win him over so you seduced him. Got pregnant by him."

She cried and shook her head, gasping and sobbing.

And said stepson, who was previously silent, suddenly understood. His brother was his son. "Oh God. Oh God no! You witch! What did you do?"

"Your husband assumed that it was his child." Goren continued looking at Regina.

"I… I... I didn't mean to hurt anybody." She cried.

"You hurt me!" Glynn yelled. He was both their perpetrator and the victim. That old dichotomy of life again.

"I went to the church and I confessed to the minister." Regina pled tearfully. Did she really think she could be absolved of molesting a child, of infidelity, of accessory to murder, of turning a family into a farce for years, with one round in the confessional? Well yes. That was the nature of a benevolent God. She was surely forgiven. But humans were punitive. The men of her family, of the state would crucify her.

"I don't care." Glynn shouted " What does that make me? What am I? I'm a freak."

"No!" She cried.

"When I opened that letter, I wanted you to burn." Glynn cried gesturing at Justin "Both of you to burn! Burn in hell!"

"I didn't know I'm sorry." Justin said. He looked shrunken without his pride.

"All my life you treated me like I'm nothing!" Glynn said.

"You know he's tried to protect you, tell him." Goren said, "Justin tell your son what you did for him!"

"I'll tell him." Their mother offered weakly.

"Shut up!" Justin fired at her. Because he still needed to claim the glory, even if the rewards were null. "Glynn I tried... it was the only way I knew I... I… I killed Charlie to protect you."

"Protect me? Why? I'm nothing! I'm nothing"

As they were all being cuffed. Regina continued her soundtrack of sobs.

"That was tough." Eames said as they drove back to 1PP. She glanced over at Goren. His mind was working. She could always tell when he was challenging the machine. He had one finger hooked inside his portfolio saving a page, and the other arm sort of awkwardly bent, palm resting on the butt of his gun. His eyes were fixed on the road. He didn't answer.

"You cooking something up?" She pushed.

"Huh? What's that?"

"Just… you look like you're about to charge at the O.K. Corral."

He straightened up and took stock of himself. Then his igneous lips cracked into a slight smile. And Alex warmed and puddled. This was the first time he'd smiled on the job in forever. They were getting there. Finally. They were getting there.

Goren wasn't thinking the same. Nowhere near. But Eames was right. He was striking a gunslinger pose. He had so much stuff coursing through him right now. Not the least of which was a strange lingering sympathy for Glynn Reid.

"You thinkin' of going to bat for him?" Alex asked.

God, she knew him too well. He been considering exactly that. Glynn's case had just the kind of extenuating circumstances that Goren felt deserved leniency. A boy should be able to trust his mother. Instead Regina Reid had conceived Glynn in a horrible way, and then made him pay the price. She had loved his 'older brother' more. Hidden his illegitimacy. Let him live a lifetime of lies. Goren only hesitated because he knew that this was a heart issue, not head one. But he'd been a police officer long enough to know that with juries (and occasionally DAs) heart trumped head every single day.

"Maybe. We'll see. Depends on Carver's mood." He said.

"Well I agree with you." Eames said. "She was a shitty mother. He's lived with developmental delays his whole life. If we can prove that she induced labour…" she was shaking her head and Goren could see the mask of rage falling over her features. Empathetic rage, for someone else's child. "Pain, perversion, lies, add to that compromised mental capacity. Yeah. I'm with you 100%."

And Goren remembered. Something he'd forgotten in all his plotting. He remembered what it felt like to have an ally. To watch his partner her get her Irish up in solidarity. To see her unconditional love, even for the least of these.

'Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.' Matthew 25:40

Sitting there, with scripture in his skull Goren had a long dark night of the soul. Full of fevered longing and abject regret. Abject misery. Would anything ever feel right again?

Then he settled back into the embryonic darkness of his mind and waited for the pain to pass.


Deakin stood solemnly before them. "You're the first on the squad to know, I turned in my resignation today. The email proves what it proves. I appreciate you looking into it."

"Then why quit?" Eames asked clearly distressed. "Why give Frank Adair what he wants?" She couldn't help but feel she was a contributory factor here.

"No. It's what I want." Deakins assured her. And it was. He had been working under astronomical amounts of stress. He was defeated. After months of this bullshit the thought of his pension, and the private sector, and the loving arms of his family, felt wonderful. "I worked it out so Officer Martinez will be okay. I could fight it, demand a public exoneration, but I'd just be letting Frank Adair use me to give the department a blackeye."

"Well you don't deserve this." Goren said with a deeply forked tongue. This was what he had orchestrated. He should be cheering. But Deakins thoughts were occurring to him too. That he'd miscalculated. That he'd over-pressured the man. That resigning was a relief. The thought was bitter in Goren's mouth. The pith of revenge. Goren had never seen Nicole after a kill. He'd only seen the bright, bubbly, girl with an arsenal of quips. He'd never seen her tantrums - the screaming, the crying, the skin scratching formication, the dirty fornication, the mirror smashing rages. It hurt her when her bloodlust returned. It was an addiction. It was insatiable. Hurting other people was never enough. You cannot make another the proxy for your self loathing.

"Frank Adair needs people to worship at his feet. I just need to know I'm right by the people who know me. My detectives. My good detectives."

Deakins was almost moved to tears.

Goren's lip twitched in a small inappropriate smile.