Supreme Court, Criminal Branch,

100 Centre Street, New York

6.40 pm Monday 23 July 2007


Alexandra Eames looked at her watch. "If they don't hurry it up in there, we won't make Rikers before lock-down and then we won't get to talk to Rivera until the morning."

"I'm pretty sure Neil Gorton is counting on that," Goren said absently, studying the only other person loitering in the corridor outside Judge Steinman's chambers, a tall man in a suit that Eames had immediately identified as a fellow cop.

Eames looked up at him. "Why didn't you point that out, I don't know, an hour ago?"

Goren shrugged. "We'll have time," he said, and wandered away.

Okay, Bobby. Eames followed him as he strolled over to the other cop, making sure to leave enough distance to let Goren do whatever he was going to do, paying closer attention to the stranger now he had Goren's attention. Late thirties or early forties, six foot even, solid build, dark hair. Hispanic? Maybe Native American, at least in part. Never had to watch what he ate when he was younger and his bad habits are just beginning to show.

"Hey," Goren said. "I — uh — that's nicotine gum, isn't it? That you're chewing?" When the cop nodded, Goren ducked his head a little. "I couldn't, uh — beg you for a piece, could I? I'm dying here."

"Sure." The cop took a packet of Nicotonel from his pocket and offered it to Goren.

Goren took it, popped out a piece, and — Eames couldn't see it but she was sure — palmed it as he put his hand to his mouth. "Thanks. What I really want is a cigarette, but the second I go out for one, they're bound to call me in. I'm Bobby, by the way. Bobby Goren."

"Marco Durham," the cop said, taking the packet back. "You ought to just quit, you know. Using the gum to cut down'll just backfire on you."

Goren laughed. "Sounds like the voice of experience. Uh — this is Alex, my partner. She'll be right on board with you about the quitting."

"Uh-huh," Eames said. "You have no idea howbad the car smells."

"For me, it was my kids," Durham said. "On my back about it. And all that stuff about cot death."

"Hey," Goren said, as if it had just occurred to him, "you're on the job, too, aren't you?"

Durham nodded. "Seattle P.D."

Goren nodded. "Oh, hey, long way."

"We have one of your fugitives?" Eames chimed in.

"No, I —" Durham stopped. "I'm sorry, guys, I probably shouldn't talk about it. I might have to talk to the judge, and I don't know the rules here."

"Sure," Goren said, nodding. "Sure. The judge in there? We're here for that too. Cooling our heels. It never changes, does it?"

That got the first flicker of a smile from the grim Seattle cop. "No, it never does. At least you're getting overtime —"

The chambers' door banged open and Regan Markham came out, almost at a run. She took two fast strides toward the door and then, just as Eames was moving to intercept her and ask her what the hell was going on in there, she saw the three of them and stopped dead.

Durham took a step toward her, and then stopped. "Ellie."

"You're here," Regan said flatly.

"Ellie, I had to tell him, I'm sorry, I had —"

"It's fine." Same flat tone. "You told the truth. It's the right thing to do."

"Ellie —"

"I have to go," Regan said, pivoted on her heel and started for the other staircase, breaking into a run.

Durham took a step after her.

"Me," Eames said to Goren, sotto voce, and headed after Regan as Goren took Durham by the arm. She could hear him saying something about when women get like that as she reached the stairs, and snorted to herself. Bobby playing the bro card. She was willing to bet folding money that the only woman who Goren spent enough time with to be able to pass comment on her behavior was herself, and like that was not something Eames ever got.

She jogged down the stairs. Regan Markham was taller than Eames, and she was in a hurry, but she was dressed for the office and Eames was dressed to chase down fleeing perps, because it was a day with a 'Y' in it. She caught up with Regan at the doors. "Regan —"

"I have to go —" Regan said desperately, yanking open the door.

Eames took her arm. "No, you don't. What you need to do is calm down."

"Let me —"

"I'm not letting you run off in a state like this." Eames put a little come on, let me do my job in her voice. "Any more than you would let me, or anyone right? I need to be sure you're alright. Come on, don't make me stand in front of my captain and say Well, sir, you see Those sentences never end well."

Regan didn't let go of the door, but she stopped moving, as Eames had known she would. Goren might be renowned for playing suspects like violins, but Eames knew cops, and whatever job Regan Markham might do these days, she was a cop to her toenails. "Who's that guy upstairs?" she asked. "What's going on?"

"He's my partner," Regan said. "And you should ask your partner. He knows. I don't know how, but he knew the first time he asked me, back in January."

Eames blinked as it came together in her head. A story about a shooting in Seattle, and Goren going at an A.D.A like she was a suspect. Don't you wonder about the other gun? he'd asked Eames later, and she'd told him no crusades. One of Goren's hunches that was more about his insatiable curiosity about puzzles than their job.

She should have remembered when Megan Wheeler had dropped a file on her desk and said Regan Markham saw something interesting last Thursday.

Should have remembered that Regan Markham had a Bobby Goren question mark over her head.

"This about the throw-down at the Seattle P.D.H.Q. shooting," she said, not making it a question. "He was the one who dropped it for you."

"Yeah," Regan said. "And he just told Neil Gorton all about it. So figure out how to make your case without my testimony, Detective, because right now my credibility's worth used toilet paper."

"Why did you do it?"

"Lie?" Regan asked. "I didn't. It was all over by the time I woke up three months later, the inquiry, the rest of it."

"Why did you shoot him?" Eames asked.

Regan looked away from her, far, far away if the expression on her face is anything to go by. "Detective," she said distantly, "I really wish I knew."

She yanked at the door, and this time Eames let her go. Short of arresting Regan, it was the only option. Chances Gorton will try something? It looked like he'd already tried it, upstairs. Eames retraced her steps back up the staircase, not for the first time wishing she had legs as long as Goren's and could take stairs two at a time without noticing.

He and Durham were about as far from each other as it was possible to be and still be in the same corridor. Durham was leaning against the wall, arms folded, staring at the floor. Goren had settled down on one of the benches, hands in his pockets.

Eames sat down next to him. "Well?"

"I think he's worked out I don't smoke," Goren said with a lift of his chin at Durham.

"We've got bigger problems, Bobby," Eames said. "Durham was the one who —"

"Dropped the gun to cover for Elish Reagan," Goren said, nodding. "He was her partner, Eames, he was always the one who did it."

"And now he's told Gorton and there's nothing to connect Gorton and Kuen if the judge decides Markham isn't credible. This whole thing is a house of cards, Bobby, you can't pull one out and expect the rest to hold up."

He took his hands from his pockets and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "We have a couple of things going for us. First, if we flip Rivera, the link to Kuen won't matter."

"And second?"

Goren shrugged a little. "He's lying. So there's that."

"He's a defense lawyer. He's breathing. Of course he's lying."

"No, no, no, not Gorton. No. Detective Marco Durham is lying."

Eames frowned. "Why would he? And why would Markham confirm it?"

"Maybe because they were sleeping together," Goren suggested. "I hear that can … complicate things."

Eames frowned. "How do you know they were sleeping together?"

Goren shrugged. "Because he just blew her whole life up and she said It's fine."

"That's it? That's what you've got?"

He gave her a sideways smile. "I pushed her on it last winter, and you remember how she was about it?"

"Angry," Eames said.

"Defensive. Scared." Goren shrugged again. "Him, she went straight to making excuses. I think she's made a lot of excuses for Detective Durham. He's got kids, and he lives with them, if he can't hide his smoking from them. At least one of them is eight or nine, that's when schools start pushing the anti-smoking message hard and kids start giving their parents grief. And one's under six months."

Eames nodded. "Cot death, right. So he was married or whatever when he and Markham worked together. And still married now."

"And he was married when she developed that reflex of forgiving him for throwing her under the bus." Goren shook his head a little, traced one eyebrow with his forefinger. "Men do that a lot when they're having an affair. Throw the other woman under the bus."

"Sure I love you, baby, but I have to stand you up to go buy groceries so wifey doesn't suspect?" Goren nodded, and Eames snorted. "I'd say on available evidence that the thrill is definitely gone."

"Yeah," Goren said. He leaned his head on his hand and watched Marco Durham up the other end of the corridor. "He's crossed the country just specifically to damage her. And as soon as Carver comes out and tells us what we already know, we can go find out just exactly why."