Manner of Cruelty
author: bebe (bebe0216[at]hotmail.com)
rating: pg-13
author's note: Please see my author page for notes on this story.
acknowledgments: Once again, my beta deserves major props--she caught my stupid mistakes, and made this thing gold. Yeah.
Chapter 3
Four o'clock: the sun was relentless. Olivia's hands were dry from the damned latex gloves, and the horrible smell of the crime scene permeated her sweat-damped tank top. She nudged the bagel further back on the dash of the black sedan, not wanting to look at it or its translucent paper wrapper. She hadn't asked for it; Grady had just brought it to her while she stood in Nick Jeremy's fouled bedroom, thumbing through a hentai manga with an RPI mass mailing for a bookmark.
Ah, cartoon kiddie porn. What a charming perp they had. Many of the pictures on the wall were clearly hand-drawn: amateurish and anatomically awkward, and signed NJ. How lovely! Evidence would certainly craft a display for these masterpieces of the art world, although it would be highly unlikely that their creator would ever get them back.
Olivia banished the images from her mind. She'd seen too much to be bothered by some punk's uninspired drawings, let alone be shocked by them.
It was the crime that was the problem, threatening a declaration of war on her sanity. The evidence technician had promised to give a preliminary serology report before midnight, but until then, they didn't even know whose blood they were looking at. They could only operate under the working theory that at least some of it belonged to Nick: the TV and the stove were left on when they'd arrived, and there was a steak next to the bloody meat cleaver, which suggested that he'd been surprised by someone. Factoring in Jessi's disappearance--well, they had to be sure they could put the teen at the scene. And that had brought them back to the investigation at hand.
They were parked outside of the palatial Shiler residence. Olivia looked up at its ivy-covered stone exterior, at the tall pines and the rose garden, at the slated walkway with overarching grapevine-wrapped trellises. This was the address; there was no denying it. The Shilers lived in a castle. Olivia looked to her partner: Elliot had stolen her bottled water, and looked like he was enjoying the last drops. It figured, but she wasn't about to complain.
After all, Nick had made their jobs easier, leaving a paper trail directly to the place. Jessi and her aunt were the first names on the list of phone numbers that Elliot had found, tacked on the wall above the two handprints and next to the smear. As it was, her partner had stared at those handprints for some time, even as the local CSU crawled over the apartment, technicians photographing and sampling every fluid deposit available. The bloody towel behind the toilet left in a plastic evidence bag, as did the knife, but he had remained focused on the handprints.
Grady had approached them, then. He had brought a bag of bagels and excuses, but no witnesses--not even from complexes on the other side of the alley. He had called the place a ghost town and had offered a snack. No one, not a single one of the other officers on the site, had turned up anything--zip, zilch, nada--not even a body. They only had a blood puddle in the alleyway at the bottom of the fire escape. Williams was coordinating an effort to track Nick via his cell phone; under the circumstances, they would do the same for Jessi Shiler. Grady was looking into Nick's resources; if he had survived the attack--or worse, was the attacker--he might be traceable by his car, or his financial transactions.
The situation looked grim. Olivia had just begun to commiserate with Grady--hence the bagel--and in the dizzy heat of dehydration she hadn't noticed Elliot take hold of her hand until he saw how perfectly her fingers aligned with the print on the right side of the magazine box. And just as she had snapped into reality, Elliot had raised his own hand to the left handprint. Even without a fingerprint analysis, there was no doubt: the left print was Nick Jeremy's, and the right one belonged to a woman.
"Or a teenaged girl," Olivia muttered.
"Earth to Detective Benson," said Elliot. "We've been sitting here for two minutes--are we going to interview the aunt, or what?"
His hand was on her wrist again, but this time, it was to pry her from the steering wheel. She shook him off.
"I'm coming; everything's fine. I'm fine," she insisted.
He gave her a confused, almost mocking look. "I didn't ask how you were feeling."
She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, he was out of the car with the door shut behind him and leaning on the hood with his eyebrows raised. She let out a huff and blew the hair from her face.
"What's going on with you?" she prodded, climbing out of the car after him.
His only reply was an innocent smile. The sun in his eyes made him squint and the resulting expression was endearingly goofy. Olivia resisted the urge to laugh and scolded him instead.
"Elliot, for all we know, that girl and her boyfriend could both be dead. If you see something funny about that, I think that maybe you ought to be seeing a therapist."
He was stung; she instantly regretted her comment.
"Sorry," she said, and began distractedly fishing around in her pockets.
"Maybe you're right," he replied with a shrug. "I'll start going along to the sessions. Sound good to you?"
He was smiling at her again. How many times was that so far, and in just one day? For him to concede so readily, without their customary bullheaded standoff, was almost inconceivable. She had to ask the question that had been nagging at the back of her mind since his disclosure on the Amtrak train.
"Elliot, doesn't a marriage therapist usually see both parties to begin with?" she asked as she walked around the car to join him on the slate path.
He stiffened, tucked his tie into his shirt, thought better of rolling up his sleeves, and paused to think about her question for a split second.
"I think so," he said with a nod.
Olivia looked up to the front door of the giant house. It had opened slightly, and someone was watching them from behind it.
"You ready?" she asked her partner, who was chewing on his bottom lip.
He grunted in reply.
She knew she had struck a nerve.
"Focus," she mumbled as the pair fell into step, marching up under the row of arches.
-----
"Hey, hey! What do you think you're doing?"
Fin turned around from his position--hunched over by the garbage can-- to face his partner.
"It's ninety-something degrees out there, John. I don't even want to look at these anymore."
"Oh, come on, they're still good. Why, this morning, you were on them like pork riders to handgun legislation. What's the problem now?"
Fin rolled his eyes and lifted the tray of baked goods up away from the trash. "What's wrong with a normal metaphor once in a while?"
"What's wrong with my pastries?"
"Nothing's wrong with your pastries." Fin sighed.
Munch folded his arms. "Then why are you throwing them away?"
"I'm not," Fin replied. He set them on Munch's desk with a satisfying plop. One of the jelly donuts leaked its contents onto a legal pad.
"What was that about?" Munch demanded.
"Was what about?" Fin replied.
"Oh, don't give me that."
"Children!" The captain stood between them, looking at once both mildly amused and mildly nauseated. He may have had one or two donuts earlier--certainly cause for digestive regret.
"Captain," said Munch, straightening up. "Are you here to free us from this unfortunate misery known as the bench, or do we have the honor of spending an additional day in each other's company, reminiscing over the case files of yesteryear?"
"Neither," replied the Cap. "There's a call for you in my office. I'll need both of you to stick around this evening."
"Good thing you don't have any plans," said Fin to Munch.
"Only with you," Munch replied, picking up the donut tray. "I'm going to get the phone--put these in the crib, would you?"
"The crib? You tired of looking at them, too?"
"No, I just thought that the next time someone spends the night, they might enjoy a complimentary continental breakfast."
He walked into the office.
"They'll be all green and moldy by then!" Fin protested as Cragen followed Munch. "Cap..."
The captain offered a shrug and shut the door.
Fin turned and sighed in resignation. He slid the jelly donut back onto the tray with the others, picked the tray up, and headed for the crib where a uniform was just waking up.
"Are those from this morning?" the sleepy man asked, yawning a foul breath into his hand.
"Yeah," replied Fin. "Been incubating in the squad room all day, growing mold just for you."
The uniform lifted up a cheese danish and chomped down.
"If it didn't add flavor, they wouldn't call it Aspergillus flavus," he replied as he disappeared around the corner.
Fin blinked and shook his head slowly.
"I think I just stepped into the twilight zone."
-----
"You can't come in. Sorry."
The doorway was blocked by a heavy-set woman in her early forties wearing a Yankees baseball shirt, a cutoff denim skirt, and navy blue pumps with one-inch heels. Her blond hair was thin and pulled back in a ponytail; her face was free of makeup but was hidden behind an oversized pair of dark sunglasses. A simple gold chain with a crucifix pendant hung around her neck. She was the lady of the castle.
"Twyla Shiler?" asked Olivia, pulling out her badge.
The woman tilted her head to one side. "Did Tara send you? Because I already talked to someone this morning and I told them, I accidentally washed the sweatshirt--I washed the sweatshirt--and the sheets and I didn't see it; I didn't see the note until it was too late. Jessi's always going out. She's not supposed to, but she does anyway; she goes out." She inhaled deeply. "What does Tara want me to tell you now?"
"Ms. Shiler, we're with Special Victims in Manhattan. I'm Detective Benson; this is my partner, Detective Stabler. The NYPD sent us to investigate the statutory rape of your niece, Jessi, and we need to ask you a few questions about last night." Olivia worked to keep her voice even and soothing--this woman seemed to be a few outs shy of an inning.
"So Tara sent you." The tone of Twyla's voice made it obvious what she thought of the detectives. "I have the note now--do you want it? I tried to give it to the cop this morning, but he said I couldn't call her missing until twenty-four hours had passed. Here, take the damn note, it's been some hours, pretend it's twenty-four."
She shoved a creased and torn piece of notebook paper in Elliot's face. Olivia pulled on another glove and took it.
It read:
"Aunt T,
Gone out. Back never.
--Jessi"
"Dots her 'i's with pentagrams. Cute," said Elliot.
Olivia tucked it into a plastic bag.
"I thought you were coming here to arrest Nick. I called him and called him, and he never answered. I called Jessi, and it was the same story. What the hell is going on here? Don't you think--" she paused to swallow the spit she'd worked up "--don't you think that if your mother tells you to stay away from a guy because she's having him arrested for rape, you would stay away from him?"
"Ms. Shiler--" Olivia began.
"Lady Twyla," she interrupted. "Lady Twyla de Shile. Servant to the Holy and Loving Mother of our Lord Jesus Christ." She crossed herself and bowed her head in prayer.
"Lady Twyla," said Elliot, trying so hard not to chuckle. "Have you ever been to Nick Jeremy's apartment?"
"I don't go out!" she replied, vigorously shaking her head. "I don't go out. Sometimes I do. I mean, I don't, really. Just for church--for the Convocation of Grace in the Light of His Gospel of Unifying Divinity." She crossed herself again.
Olivia bit her lip so hard she was sure she'd drawn blood.
"So last night, you were here--the whole night?"
"Of course I was here. I was in the library. I read books, and I watch baseball. Last night I watched baseball--Jessi never wants to watch with me. She just got here from the city and I saw her for a few minutes, and she said--she said she was going to bed and I went to the back of the house. It was late, I think it was ten. I heard sounds, but I ignored them." Her tone of voice was one of sheer apathy. "When the inning ended, I went up to check on her, and she was gone. I called my sister, and I called the police. I talked to the one who came out here, and then I was tired so I fell asleep. When I woke up, I went back in the room and found the note, and I called Tara and the police again. They said that I could call in a missing person after twenty-four hours. Tara told me not to be worried, because there was a warrant for Nick so that meant you would find Jessi when you found him."
The detectives nodded and exchanged glances. Olivia's told Elliot she didn't buy it. Elliot's told Olivia to push as far as she needed to.
"Ms. Shi--I mean, Lady Twyla. Did you or your sister think to send anyone to check for Jessi over at Nick's apartment?"
"Of course," said Twyla. "Nobody was home."
"And when was that?" asked Elliot.
"Around midnight," she replied.
"Who went?" asked Olivia.
"My friend from church, Nancy Della Rocco. She works at RPI--in the Dean's Office of the Engineering Department."
"She knows Nick pretty well?"
Twyla nodded. "Did something happen?" she asked.
Olivia hedged. "We're not quite sure what happened. Do you know anyone who might have seen Jessi that night--any friends of Nick's that might have seen the two of them together?"
Twyla stared into space. Elliot took advantage of the opportunity to survey what he could see of the inside of the house. It was austere, and barely seemed lived-in.
"It would help us to place her whereabouts last night," Olivia added.
The woman contorted her face and creased her forehead with an exaggeration of deep thought. "Somewhere on the bus line, I guess? Where else could they go?"
"Nick doesn't own a vehicle?"
She laughed and shook her head, leaning her face in towards them.
"No. He's so easy to find, since he's dependent on the bus. Takes it to RPI every day. Nancy told me. I couldn't believe it for the longest time. Jessi's a fool--what good is an older man if he's broke and lives in a dump, drawing cartoons all day?"
Elliot stared at her intently.
"Do you think your friend would mind if we talked to her?" he asked.
"It's almost quarter to five, but...I'll call her and tell her to stay at work. You'll like Rensselaer's campus, even with the construction." Twyla smiled broadly. "Troy is so beautiful. Have a good time there."
She shut the door in their faces.
"I guess we're going to RPI, then," said Olivia, turning and walking down off the porch alongside Elliot.
He reached up underneath the first trellis and plucked a grape.
"Looks that way," he said, and ate it.
-----
Five-thirty p.m. meant a traffic jam that spanned Route 7 from Latham across the river and up the hill to Brunswick. It meant Olivia regretted knowing the area as she sat behind the wheel at the traffic light marking the seam of the bridge to Troy and the bottom of Hoosick Street, while her partner closed his eyes and napped in the passenger seat--her bagel, now half-eaten, in a hand lazily draped in his lap. He looked serene; she was envious.
"Oh, come on, it's green, people! Let's go, here!"
Her fingers drummed on the steering wheel. Elliot listened with restrained amusement. Of course he wasn't really sleeping; it was just fun to pretend, to get her going. Lately, when she became sufficiently annoyed, she would get this look in her eyes that he found hilarious. Maybe she'd always done it, but he only started noticing since she changed her hair. The longer it got, the younger she looked--which was funny, since everyone else seemed only to look older every day. He hadn't really thought about it before, but it was true.
As the car crawled up the hill, he thought back to the Shiler house. It was nice to be able to just sit and think, for a change. All the way along I-787, Olivia had been on the phone with Grady, and he couldn't concentrate. This case was a mess. His partner was a mess. He was a mess- -no, he was fine. It was the sun, still at full force, that was making him feel strange. And the crime scene chemicals; they must have had something to do with it. He was thirsty, so that had to factor in. Olivia was tapping on the wheel again, and he felt a little bit guilty for drinking all her water.
"Ugh," she moaned quietly. "Traffic jam and construction."
He could hear her take a deep breath and harrumph--and very carefully, very slightly, he opened an eye to look at her. There was that expression again, just as expected. She was vigorously mussing her hair with her left hand, then smoothing it out. Elliot wondered why she was so worked up. He knew that more often than not, the cases affected her, but this one came with a bizarre cast of characters. The aunt was obviously unstable; the boyfriend liked, well, unusual pictures; they were all crazy cult members who would probably cross themselves if someone told them Swiss cheese was holey. It was easy for him to joke, to stay detached from the situation and analyze it. He realized that he wasn't worried for anyone involved--teen girl, boyfriend, missing girls. And that troubled him. Was it possible he wasn't disinterested, but uninterested? If that was true, then Olivia was right: he did need therapy.
He began to squirm uncomfortably. He needed therapy? Not possible. Not when nothing was wrong at home. Things were better than they had been in years. Kathy hadn't made any remarks about his work hours or closeness to his partner in weeks, since she started the counseling. He tried to stuff the thoughts back where they came from, because personal crap should never interfere with work. That was how it was supposed to be, and he would not fail himself by being distracted. He focused on his partner, studying her face as she followed the detour signs.
At last, Olivia maneuvered into a parking space. She looked at her watch--it was almost six. It had taken almost half an hour just to go up the hill and find a place to park. In all that time, Grady hadn't called back--and he said he would, once he had finished going through the cell phone records he had pulled.
"All right, wake up," she said, turning to Elliot.
Of course, he was already grinning at her. Again! She cut the motor, got out of the car, slammed the door and marched up toward the building without saying a word.
Elliot wondered, once again, what it was that was setting her off. He climbed out after her and followed her into the large brick building, where their interviewee was ready and waiting.
"Traffic must be horrible, huh," she said, extending a hand toward Olivia. "I'm Nancy Della Rocco; my friend Twyla Shiler told me to expect you."
Olivia shook her hand. "I'm Detective Benson; this is my partner, Detective Stabler."
Elliot eyed the woman's overflowing tote bag.
"Glad you decided to stick around and wait for us," he commented.
She blushed a bit.
"Well, I do have to get home to my family," she said, adjusting her purse strap.
"Must be nice," muttered Elliot.
"You have children, Detective?" asked Nancy; Elliot realized she must have heard him.
"Four," he replied.
The woman nodded. She was a small woman, slightly built, with a look one might describe as bookish--glasses, simple clothes, boxy oxfords, shoulder-length mousey brown hair, a hooked nose and the hint of a moustache. Her purse strap slid precariously downward; she had no shoulders to speak of.
"We won't keep you long," said Olivia.
Nancy smiled, and her purse strap fell. A wallet tumbled out, and its contents littered the floor.
"Oh, no!" she moaned, dropping down to pick up the mess.
"Let me help you," offered Olivia.
She reached down and picked up a photograph. It was a school portrait--the boy in the picture was obviously crippled, with a pained and uncontrolled expression on his face like a smile and a grimace all at once.
"Your son?" asked the detective as the other woman turned a deep red.
"Yes, that's my son, Jesse. He..." Mrs. Della Rocco looked extremely embarrassed and apologetic. "He has cerebral palsy."
Neither detective knew what to say. The woman pocketed her belongings in the awkward silence that followed.
"You wanted to ask me about Nick and Jessica?" she said at length.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Della Rocco. We just need to know about your trip to Nick Jeremy's apartment last night--around midnight?"
She nodded. "I know Nick. He's one course shy of a degree in aerospace engineering--when Twyla told me she thought Jessi was over there, I was shocked. Nick and Jessica have morals, you know."
"Right," said Elliot.
"So of course I went over. I knew the address from all the times I've sent letters to it. Anyway, when I got there, there were no lights on in the whole building. I tried to go in, but it was too dark to see, so I yelled a few times. Nobody answered, so I went home and I told Twyla no one was there."
"Mrs. Della Rocco, you say you went inside the building?" Olivia asked.
"Yes."
"Did you notice anything unusual when you went in?"
"It was pitch black in there. I was afraid someone was going to jump out at me--I just stuck my head in. I didn't try to go upstairs. So, no, I didn't notice anything unusual."
Elliot added a question of his own.
"Mrs. Della Rocco--we know that you, the Shilers, and Mr. Jeremy attend the same church. Can you tell me about his involvement with it?"
Nancy stiffened.
"No, I can't say I really noticed him there. I know him from RPI, in an academic capacity."
"But you said he and Jessica had morals."
"I would hope!" she snapped. "I try to hold onto an optimistic perspective, Detective. It helps me to get through each day, the Lord willing."
Elliot noticed that she didn't cross herself.
"Our apologies, ma'am. Thank you for your time--" Olivia offered, but the woman had already taken her bags and barged her way out the door. Olivia sighed and shrugged her shoulders.
"That was interesting," offered Elliot.
"And really informative," she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Worth driving out here for what she had to say."
"Maybe." He placed a hand on her back to guide her out the door. "We should head back to Colonie and see what Grady's got for us."
She frowned and pulled the car keys from her pocket. "Back into traffic, yippee."
"...and I'll drive."
Olivia smiled. It was a cute smile; Elliot returned it.
"Thanks."
"Welcome."
Outside, the heat had dropped a few degrees as they headed for the black sedan.
-----
Buying the yoga mat had been a stupid idea. The human body was never designed to bend in certain directions--at least, not her body, and not in those directions. The woman on the flyer had her foot on top of her head. To Casey, that was like a neon, flashing sign reading "Do not try this at home!" And yet, when she bought the mat, she found out that was precisely where she was supposed to use it. The yoga studio had plenty of them already. She felt dumb for leaving it rolled up in the corner of her living room, but she was fairly certain she'd feel dumber sitting square on the floor in front of the television, pulling her feet over her head and trying to catch a peek at CNN from between her toes.
But today, she finally had a use for it. It was five minutes to seven as she rolled it out on the floor at Tara's gym. She shivered: it was sixty degrees in the aerobics studio, but that was a good sign. The last time she had done something like this--the time when she'd bought the mat--it had been for Bikram yoga. That, she knew, was the ultimate in sadistic torture. Painful contortions, hundred-degree heat, full humidity...Yanni on the sound system...it was evil. If Pilates was anything like that, she didn't care what favor she had promised Aaron, she was out of there.
She brushed the shorter bits of hair from her face and adjusted her yoga top. It was brand new, and her favorite shade of green. She felt it went well with her heather gray sweatpants and navy and white track shoes. Stealthily, she checked herself out in the mirror.
'Looking good,' she assured herself, and rolled the cuffs of her white ankle socks down.
Casey knew that if she focused on anything other than what she was about to do, it would help her when she tried to do it. Drum and bass music began to play in the background; she listened to that. Other women rolled out their mats behind hers and began to stretch. She copied their moves, watching them in the mirror. One woman lifted her leg up. Casey tried to put hers on her head: it still wasn't happening.
Her eyes scanned the room for the instructor. Maybe, if she was lucky, the class would begin before her quarry arrived: she could deliver her message afterward, when hell's fury had at least cooled down a few degrees. At that moment a blond woman came through the door. Their eyes met, and, as Munch would describe it later, the spark of recognition lit the bonfire of mutual loathing.
"Since when do you work out," Tara Shiler growled.
"Just started," Casey replied, slouching into a normal stance. "I heard that Pilates benefits your body and your soul."
"What, so did you ask for a 50%-off discount?" Tara spat. "Since you don't have the one, and so desperately need help with the other."
Casey glared at her. The shorter, older woman dropped her bag on the ground beside Casey's mat, arched her back, and reached up for the ceiling in a stretch.
"Besides," the former representative continued, "you were misinformed. The emphasis of Pilates is on core strength--your back and your abs, to benefit your spine."
"Oh. In that case, they must have let you in free."
Tara glowered at her. "You liberals are all the same," she hissed.
Casey started to snap a comeback, but was cut off by the instructor's microphone.
"Let's begin with a big inhale up...exhale down...and plié, inhale up...legs wide apart."
Casey copied the instructor's motions; in the plié, she felt something tear. She winced. Tara was watching her in the mirror, she knew--because in between desperate attempts to keep up with the ballet crap, she was watching Tara.
"Exhale down...and plié. Big arms, tighten those abs--don't arch your back--strong core, and inhale up..."
"Don't tell me you can't even stretch out," said Tara, just loud enough for her to hear.
She chose to ignore the comment.
"Arms in front: bring them down to the floor...and stay there."
Casey tried to keep the horrified expression off her face. Touch her toes? She couldn't do that, let alone touch the floor. But Tara's fingertips rested lightly on her mat, and Casey would not be outdone. She gritted her teeth, reached, and connected--and watched as Tara lowered to place her knuckles on the floor. Rivalry was sometimes painful; as she exhaled down to match her enemy she reminded herself that if they were at the batting cages, Tara would be the one struggling to keep up.
Even better--if they were at the cages, Casey would have a nice aluminum bat. Yes, she would have liked that bat in her hands about then, as the starved-thin blond woman grinned up at her and set her palms down flat on the floor.
"Roll it up slowly, one vertebra at a time...arms out, legs wide and take it into side lunges."
Casey realized suddenly that everyone was standing again. Her rival was leaning left, then right, her legs wide and straddling the mat. The ADA smiled--finally, something she could do. She let her mind drift back to her youth, when she was her family's "little slugger." They took her to t-ball, little league, and softball--she played for eighteen years before college ended and she switched to coaching. It was her one passion, other than the law. In fact, softball was how she got to know Aaron.
He lectured sometimes in her criminal law course years before, when she was in her second year at law school, and just starting as an assistant coach in the youth league. One day, he brought his daughter in to register for the little league--he recognized his student, and the rest was history, even though Casey never coached Jessi's team. Casey realized she probably wouldn't even recognize the girl if she saw her. She'd moved in with her mother--that rail-thin spokeswoman for mascara overuse and gender bias--and quit the league, likely because of it. The ADA didn't exactly peg Tara as a team player.
Along with the rest of the class, Casey stepped out of the lunges and into sweeps. Her mind wandered into self-reflection as she watched the other twenty lycra-sheathed bodies move fluidly with the melody-free beat. Maybe she couldn't be as pretty as the other women; maybe she didn't share their passion for shopping and tanning and matching their earrings to their coordinated little outfits. Maybe she didn't care, anyway. Her dad had wanted a boy--what he got was as close as possible. She could hit a 95-mph curve ball into the stands, and that was good enough for her.
"What did you come here for, really?" hissed Tara. "Have you got something to tell me?"
"We should go out in the hall to talk about it."
Tara snorted. "Like hell I'm wasting the money I paid for these sessions. Tell me here. Did your detectives find my daughter? What happened at her useless boyfriend's apartment?"
Casey lost her rhythm and struggled to recover.
"How did you know something happened?"
"It's kind of obvious when the police have a blockade around the place. Don't you think?"
"All right, let's do our sun salutations. Feet together and reach up..."
"So, tell me where my daughter is."
"And dive down all the way."
Casey didn't answer. She couldn't, not in this vulnerable position.
"Inhale and look up."
"I'm waiting. And you called me spineless, you liberal--"
"And exhale and look at your knees. Inhale, look up."
"If you saw the blockade, then you should know that the police did not find Jessi at Nick's apartment."
"Exhale, look down, and take the right leg back into a lunge and hold it."
"Then where is she. Didn't your detectives get him to tell you where she went?"
If Casey had been looking, she would have seen the look of shock on the other woman's face.
"The police are looking for her. Neither she nor her boyfriend have been accounted for."
"And you waited this long to tell me?" Tara was fuming, on the verge of screaming.
"And bring the other leg back to a plank, and hold it."
"I'm sorry, but you didn't leave us with many options. We tried to leave messages for you, but your voicemail was full."
Tara climbed to her feet and rolled up her mat. Casey could only see her sneakers from her push-up-like position.
"I don't believe this," Tara snapped. She was pacing angrily, as though ready to storm out of the room but unsure of the location of the door.
The instructor had stopped talking, and was looking directly at her.
"Is something wrong, Ms. Shiler?"
Casey rolled back onto her heels, thankful for the break from the pain--only to have her arm wrenched from its socket.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Casey demanded. Tara's grip on her forearm was a little too strong and she reached to pry her fingers off, but was pulled toward the door. The two grappled as Tara dragged the hapless ADA out into the main lobby.
"You incompetent idiot! Do you realize what you've done?" Tara spat.
Casey deflected a nasty right hook.
"Would you get your hands off me!" she barked, doing her best not to actively fight her attacker.
"You're making a scene!" Tara shouted.
"I'm making a scene?" Casey retorted.
Tara swung her hand up to claw at the ADA's face, but Casey was fast enough to catch her and their fingers interlaced. Tara dug her nails into Casey's flesh; Casey yelped and withdrew her hand, and was slammed backwards by a shove. She hit the glass door of the exit with her back, fell out into the street and landed on her butt on the concrete.
"That sick bastard murdered three girls and you let him get away with Jessica!" Tara stood over her, her eyes wild with hate.
Casey stood up, using her left arm to raise herself. She felt nothing--she was unaware of the crowd of people gathering, of her right arm, limp at her side, and of the two SVU detectives running along the sidewalk in her direction.
"I didn't let him get away with anything," she hissed. "That was you."
"Freeze!"
The impact of the woman's punch threw her backwards and spun her around. She never saw it coming. In slow motion, she collapsed toward the ground--Munch dived for her, catching her just before she hit.
Tara turned to run. This was a mistake--she had to get away--and the people were blocking her. She needed to get out; she had to get away from there!
"Get out of my way!" she screamed, but was grabbed from behind.
"You're under arrest," Fin growled. He wrestled the shrieking former representative to the ground and cuffed her.
"I didn't do anything!" Tara protested as she thrashed around.
Fin lifted her to her feet. "You have the right to remain silent--"
"Fin."
The younger detective looked down at his partner, kneeling beside Casey's limp form. His face was as pale as hers.
"We need an ambulance."
author: bebe (bebe0216[at]hotmail.com)
rating: pg-13
author's note: Please see my author page for notes on this story.
acknowledgments: Once again, my beta deserves major props--she caught my stupid mistakes, and made this thing gold. Yeah.
Chapter 3
Four o'clock: the sun was relentless. Olivia's hands were dry from the damned latex gloves, and the horrible smell of the crime scene permeated her sweat-damped tank top. She nudged the bagel further back on the dash of the black sedan, not wanting to look at it or its translucent paper wrapper. She hadn't asked for it; Grady had just brought it to her while she stood in Nick Jeremy's fouled bedroom, thumbing through a hentai manga with an RPI mass mailing for a bookmark.
Ah, cartoon kiddie porn. What a charming perp they had. Many of the pictures on the wall were clearly hand-drawn: amateurish and anatomically awkward, and signed NJ. How lovely! Evidence would certainly craft a display for these masterpieces of the art world, although it would be highly unlikely that their creator would ever get them back.
Olivia banished the images from her mind. She'd seen too much to be bothered by some punk's uninspired drawings, let alone be shocked by them.
It was the crime that was the problem, threatening a declaration of war on her sanity. The evidence technician had promised to give a preliminary serology report before midnight, but until then, they didn't even know whose blood they were looking at. They could only operate under the working theory that at least some of it belonged to Nick: the TV and the stove were left on when they'd arrived, and there was a steak next to the bloody meat cleaver, which suggested that he'd been surprised by someone. Factoring in Jessi's disappearance--well, they had to be sure they could put the teen at the scene. And that had brought them back to the investigation at hand.
They were parked outside of the palatial Shiler residence. Olivia looked up at its ivy-covered stone exterior, at the tall pines and the rose garden, at the slated walkway with overarching grapevine-wrapped trellises. This was the address; there was no denying it. The Shilers lived in a castle. Olivia looked to her partner: Elliot had stolen her bottled water, and looked like he was enjoying the last drops. It figured, but she wasn't about to complain.
After all, Nick had made their jobs easier, leaving a paper trail directly to the place. Jessi and her aunt were the first names on the list of phone numbers that Elliot had found, tacked on the wall above the two handprints and next to the smear. As it was, her partner had stared at those handprints for some time, even as the local CSU crawled over the apartment, technicians photographing and sampling every fluid deposit available. The bloody towel behind the toilet left in a plastic evidence bag, as did the knife, but he had remained focused on the handprints.
Grady had approached them, then. He had brought a bag of bagels and excuses, but no witnesses--not even from complexes on the other side of the alley. He had called the place a ghost town and had offered a snack. No one, not a single one of the other officers on the site, had turned up anything--zip, zilch, nada--not even a body. They only had a blood puddle in the alleyway at the bottom of the fire escape. Williams was coordinating an effort to track Nick via his cell phone; under the circumstances, they would do the same for Jessi Shiler. Grady was looking into Nick's resources; if he had survived the attack--or worse, was the attacker--he might be traceable by his car, or his financial transactions.
The situation looked grim. Olivia had just begun to commiserate with Grady--hence the bagel--and in the dizzy heat of dehydration she hadn't noticed Elliot take hold of her hand until he saw how perfectly her fingers aligned with the print on the right side of the magazine box. And just as she had snapped into reality, Elliot had raised his own hand to the left handprint. Even without a fingerprint analysis, there was no doubt: the left print was Nick Jeremy's, and the right one belonged to a woman.
"Or a teenaged girl," Olivia muttered.
"Earth to Detective Benson," said Elliot. "We've been sitting here for two minutes--are we going to interview the aunt, or what?"
His hand was on her wrist again, but this time, it was to pry her from the steering wheel. She shook him off.
"I'm coming; everything's fine. I'm fine," she insisted.
He gave her a confused, almost mocking look. "I didn't ask how you were feeling."
She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, he was out of the car with the door shut behind him and leaning on the hood with his eyebrows raised. She let out a huff and blew the hair from her face.
"What's going on with you?" she prodded, climbing out of the car after him.
His only reply was an innocent smile. The sun in his eyes made him squint and the resulting expression was endearingly goofy. Olivia resisted the urge to laugh and scolded him instead.
"Elliot, for all we know, that girl and her boyfriend could both be dead. If you see something funny about that, I think that maybe you ought to be seeing a therapist."
He was stung; she instantly regretted her comment.
"Sorry," she said, and began distractedly fishing around in her pockets.
"Maybe you're right," he replied with a shrug. "I'll start going along to the sessions. Sound good to you?"
He was smiling at her again. How many times was that so far, and in just one day? For him to concede so readily, without their customary bullheaded standoff, was almost inconceivable. She had to ask the question that had been nagging at the back of her mind since his disclosure on the Amtrak train.
"Elliot, doesn't a marriage therapist usually see both parties to begin with?" she asked as she walked around the car to join him on the slate path.
He stiffened, tucked his tie into his shirt, thought better of rolling up his sleeves, and paused to think about her question for a split second.
"I think so," he said with a nod.
Olivia looked up to the front door of the giant house. It had opened slightly, and someone was watching them from behind it.
"You ready?" she asked her partner, who was chewing on his bottom lip.
He grunted in reply.
She knew she had struck a nerve.
"Focus," she mumbled as the pair fell into step, marching up under the row of arches.
-----
"Hey, hey! What do you think you're doing?"
Fin turned around from his position--hunched over by the garbage can-- to face his partner.
"It's ninety-something degrees out there, John. I don't even want to look at these anymore."
"Oh, come on, they're still good. Why, this morning, you were on them like pork riders to handgun legislation. What's the problem now?"
Fin rolled his eyes and lifted the tray of baked goods up away from the trash. "What's wrong with a normal metaphor once in a while?"
"What's wrong with my pastries?"
"Nothing's wrong with your pastries." Fin sighed.
Munch folded his arms. "Then why are you throwing them away?"
"I'm not," Fin replied. He set them on Munch's desk with a satisfying plop. One of the jelly donuts leaked its contents onto a legal pad.
"What was that about?" Munch demanded.
"Was what about?" Fin replied.
"Oh, don't give me that."
"Children!" The captain stood between them, looking at once both mildly amused and mildly nauseated. He may have had one or two donuts earlier--certainly cause for digestive regret.
"Captain," said Munch, straightening up. "Are you here to free us from this unfortunate misery known as the bench, or do we have the honor of spending an additional day in each other's company, reminiscing over the case files of yesteryear?"
"Neither," replied the Cap. "There's a call for you in my office. I'll need both of you to stick around this evening."
"Good thing you don't have any plans," said Fin to Munch.
"Only with you," Munch replied, picking up the donut tray. "I'm going to get the phone--put these in the crib, would you?"
"The crib? You tired of looking at them, too?"
"No, I just thought that the next time someone spends the night, they might enjoy a complimentary continental breakfast."
He walked into the office.
"They'll be all green and moldy by then!" Fin protested as Cragen followed Munch. "Cap..."
The captain offered a shrug and shut the door.
Fin turned and sighed in resignation. He slid the jelly donut back onto the tray with the others, picked the tray up, and headed for the crib where a uniform was just waking up.
"Are those from this morning?" the sleepy man asked, yawning a foul breath into his hand.
"Yeah," replied Fin. "Been incubating in the squad room all day, growing mold just for you."
The uniform lifted up a cheese danish and chomped down.
"If it didn't add flavor, they wouldn't call it Aspergillus flavus," he replied as he disappeared around the corner.
Fin blinked and shook his head slowly.
"I think I just stepped into the twilight zone."
-----
"You can't come in. Sorry."
The doorway was blocked by a heavy-set woman in her early forties wearing a Yankees baseball shirt, a cutoff denim skirt, and navy blue pumps with one-inch heels. Her blond hair was thin and pulled back in a ponytail; her face was free of makeup but was hidden behind an oversized pair of dark sunglasses. A simple gold chain with a crucifix pendant hung around her neck. She was the lady of the castle.
"Twyla Shiler?" asked Olivia, pulling out her badge.
The woman tilted her head to one side. "Did Tara send you? Because I already talked to someone this morning and I told them, I accidentally washed the sweatshirt--I washed the sweatshirt--and the sheets and I didn't see it; I didn't see the note until it was too late. Jessi's always going out. She's not supposed to, but she does anyway; she goes out." She inhaled deeply. "What does Tara want me to tell you now?"
"Ms. Shiler, we're with Special Victims in Manhattan. I'm Detective Benson; this is my partner, Detective Stabler. The NYPD sent us to investigate the statutory rape of your niece, Jessi, and we need to ask you a few questions about last night." Olivia worked to keep her voice even and soothing--this woman seemed to be a few outs shy of an inning.
"So Tara sent you." The tone of Twyla's voice made it obvious what she thought of the detectives. "I have the note now--do you want it? I tried to give it to the cop this morning, but he said I couldn't call her missing until twenty-four hours had passed. Here, take the damn note, it's been some hours, pretend it's twenty-four."
She shoved a creased and torn piece of notebook paper in Elliot's face. Olivia pulled on another glove and took it.
It read:
"Aunt T,
Gone out. Back never.
--Jessi"
"Dots her 'i's with pentagrams. Cute," said Elliot.
Olivia tucked it into a plastic bag.
"I thought you were coming here to arrest Nick. I called him and called him, and he never answered. I called Jessi, and it was the same story. What the hell is going on here? Don't you think--" she paused to swallow the spit she'd worked up "--don't you think that if your mother tells you to stay away from a guy because she's having him arrested for rape, you would stay away from him?"
"Ms. Shiler--" Olivia began.
"Lady Twyla," she interrupted. "Lady Twyla de Shile. Servant to the Holy and Loving Mother of our Lord Jesus Christ." She crossed herself and bowed her head in prayer.
"Lady Twyla," said Elliot, trying so hard not to chuckle. "Have you ever been to Nick Jeremy's apartment?"
"I don't go out!" she replied, vigorously shaking her head. "I don't go out. Sometimes I do. I mean, I don't, really. Just for church--for the Convocation of Grace in the Light of His Gospel of Unifying Divinity." She crossed herself again.
Olivia bit her lip so hard she was sure she'd drawn blood.
"So last night, you were here--the whole night?"
"Of course I was here. I was in the library. I read books, and I watch baseball. Last night I watched baseball--Jessi never wants to watch with me. She just got here from the city and I saw her for a few minutes, and she said--she said she was going to bed and I went to the back of the house. It was late, I think it was ten. I heard sounds, but I ignored them." Her tone of voice was one of sheer apathy. "When the inning ended, I went up to check on her, and she was gone. I called my sister, and I called the police. I talked to the one who came out here, and then I was tired so I fell asleep. When I woke up, I went back in the room and found the note, and I called Tara and the police again. They said that I could call in a missing person after twenty-four hours. Tara told me not to be worried, because there was a warrant for Nick so that meant you would find Jessi when you found him."
The detectives nodded and exchanged glances. Olivia's told Elliot she didn't buy it. Elliot's told Olivia to push as far as she needed to.
"Ms. Shi--I mean, Lady Twyla. Did you or your sister think to send anyone to check for Jessi over at Nick's apartment?"
"Of course," said Twyla. "Nobody was home."
"And when was that?" asked Elliot.
"Around midnight," she replied.
"Who went?" asked Olivia.
"My friend from church, Nancy Della Rocco. She works at RPI--in the Dean's Office of the Engineering Department."
"She knows Nick pretty well?"
Twyla nodded. "Did something happen?" she asked.
Olivia hedged. "We're not quite sure what happened. Do you know anyone who might have seen Jessi that night--any friends of Nick's that might have seen the two of them together?"
Twyla stared into space. Elliot took advantage of the opportunity to survey what he could see of the inside of the house. It was austere, and barely seemed lived-in.
"It would help us to place her whereabouts last night," Olivia added.
The woman contorted her face and creased her forehead with an exaggeration of deep thought. "Somewhere on the bus line, I guess? Where else could they go?"
"Nick doesn't own a vehicle?"
She laughed and shook her head, leaning her face in towards them.
"No. He's so easy to find, since he's dependent on the bus. Takes it to RPI every day. Nancy told me. I couldn't believe it for the longest time. Jessi's a fool--what good is an older man if he's broke and lives in a dump, drawing cartoons all day?"
Elliot stared at her intently.
"Do you think your friend would mind if we talked to her?" he asked.
"It's almost quarter to five, but...I'll call her and tell her to stay at work. You'll like Rensselaer's campus, even with the construction." Twyla smiled broadly. "Troy is so beautiful. Have a good time there."
She shut the door in their faces.
"I guess we're going to RPI, then," said Olivia, turning and walking down off the porch alongside Elliot.
He reached up underneath the first trellis and plucked a grape.
"Looks that way," he said, and ate it.
-----
Five-thirty p.m. meant a traffic jam that spanned Route 7 from Latham across the river and up the hill to Brunswick. It meant Olivia regretted knowing the area as she sat behind the wheel at the traffic light marking the seam of the bridge to Troy and the bottom of Hoosick Street, while her partner closed his eyes and napped in the passenger seat--her bagel, now half-eaten, in a hand lazily draped in his lap. He looked serene; she was envious.
"Oh, come on, it's green, people! Let's go, here!"
Her fingers drummed on the steering wheel. Elliot listened with restrained amusement. Of course he wasn't really sleeping; it was just fun to pretend, to get her going. Lately, when she became sufficiently annoyed, she would get this look in her eyes that he found hilarious. Maybe she'd always done it, but he only started noticing since she changed her hair. The longer it got, the younger she looked--which was funny, since everyone else seemed only to look older every day. He hadn't really thought about it before, but it was true.
As the car crawled up the hill, he thought back to the Shiler house. It was nice to be able to just sit and think, for a change. All the way along I-787, Olivia had been on the phone with Grady, and he couldn't concentrate. This case was a mess. His partner was a mess. He was a mess- -no, he was fine. It was the sun, still at full force, that was making him feel strange. And the crime scene chemicals; they must have had something to do with it. He was thirsty, so that had to factor in. Olivia was tapping on the wheel again, and he felt a little bit guilty for drinking all her water.
"Ugh," she moaned quietly. "Traffic jam and construction."
He could hear her take a deep breath and harrumph--and very carefully, very slightly, he opened an eye to look at her. There was that expression again, just as expected. She was vigorously mussing her hair with her left hand, then smoothing it out. Elliot wondered why she was so worked up. He knew that more often than not, the cases affected her, but this one came with a bizarre cast of characters. The aunt was obviously unstable; the boyfriend liked, well, unusual pictures; they were all crazy cult members who would probably cross themselves if someone told them Swiss cheese was holey. It was easy for him to joke, to stay detached from the situation and analyze it. He realized that he wasn't worried for anyone involved--teen girl, boyfriend, missing girls. And that troubled him. Was it possible he wasn't disinterested, but uninterested? If that was true, then Olivia was right: he did need therapy.
He began to squirm uncomfortably. He needed therapy? Not possible. Not when nothing was wrong at home. Things were better than they had been in years. Kathy hadn't made any remarks about his work hours or closeness to his partner in weeks, since she started the counseling. He tried to stuff the thoughts back where they came from, because personal crap should never interfere with work. That was how it was supposed to be, and he would not fail himself by being distracted. He focused on his partner, studying her face as she followed the detour signs.
At last, Olivia maneuvered into a parking space. She looked at her watch--it was almost six. It had taken almost half an hour just to go up the hill and find a place to park. In all that time, Grady hadn't called back--and he said he would, once he had finished going through the cell phone records he had pulled.
"All right, wake up," she said, turning to Elliot.
Of course, he was already grinning at her. Again! She cut the motor, got out of the car, slammed the door and marched up toward the building without saying a word.
Elliot wondered, once again, what it was that was setting her off. He climbed out after her and followed her into the large brick building, where their interviewee was ready and waiting.
"Traffic must be horrible, huh," she said, extending a hand toward Olivia. "I'm Nancy Della Rocco; my friend Twyla Shiler told me to expect you."
Olivia shook her hand. "I'm Detective Benson; this is my partner, Detective Stabler."
Elliot eyed the woman's overflowing tote bag.
"Glad you decided to stick around and wait for us," he commented.
She blushed a bit.
"Well, I do have to get home to my family," she said, adjusting her purse strap.
"Must be nice," muttered Elliot.
"You have children, Detective?" asked Nancy; Elliot realized she must have heard him.
"Four," he replied.
The woman nodded. She was a small woman, slightly built, with a look one might describe as bookish--glasses, simple clothes, boxy oxfords, shoulder-length mousey brown hair, a hooked nose and the hint of a moustache. Her purse strap slid precariously downward; she had no shoulders to speak of.
"We won't keep you long," said Olivia.
Nancy smiled, and her purse strap fell. A wallet tumbled out, and its contents littered the floor.
"Oh, no!" she moaned, dropping down to pick up the mess.
"Let me help you," offered Olivia.
She reached down and picked up a photograph. It was a school portrait--the boy in the picture was obviously crippled, with a pained and uncontrolled expression on his face like a smile and a grimace all at once.
"Your son?" asked the detective as the other woman turned a deep red.
"Yes, that's my son, Jesse. He..." Mrs. Della Rocco looked extremely embarrassed and apologetic. "He has cerebral palsy."
Neither detective knew what to say. The woman pocketed her belongings in the awkward silence that followed.
"You wanted to ask me about Nick and Jessica?" she said at length.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Della Rocco. We just need to know about your trip to Nick Jeremy's apartment last night--around midnight?"
She nodded. "I know Nick. He's one course shy of a degree in aerospace engineering--when Twyla told me she thought Jessi was over there, I was shocked. Nick and Jessica have morals, you know."
"Right," said Elliot.
"So of course I went over. I knew the address from all the times I've sent letters to it. Anyway, when I got there, there were no lights on in the whole building. I tried to go in, but it was too dark to see, so I yelled a few times. Nobody answered, so I went home and I told Twyla no one was there."
"Mrs. Della Rocco, you say you went inside the building?" Olivia asked.
"Yes."
"Did you notice anything unusual when you went in?"
"It was pitch black in there. I was afraid someone was going to jump out at me--I just stuck my head in. I didn't try to go upstairs. So, no, I didn't notice anything unusual."
Elliot added a question of his own.
"Mrs. Della Rocco--we know that you, the Shilers, and Mr. Jeremy attend the same church. Can you tell me about his involvement with it?"
Nancy stiffened.
"No, I can't say I really noticed him there. I know him from RPI, in an academic capacity."
"But you said he and Jessica had morals."
"I would hope!" she snapped. "I try to hold onto an optimistic perspective, Detective. It helps me to get through each day, the Lord willing."
Elliot noticed that she didn't cross herself.
"Our apologies, ma'am. Thank you for your time--" Olivia offered, but the woman had already taken her bags and barged her way out the door. Olivia sighed and shrugged her shoulders.
"That was interesting," offered Elliot.
"And really informative," she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Worth driving out here for what she had to say."
"Maybe." He placed a hand on her back to guide her out the door. "We should head back to Colonie and see what Grady's got for us."
She frowned and pulled the car keys from her pocket. "Back into traffic, yippee."
"...and I'll drive."
Olivia smiled. It was a cute smile; Elliot returned it.
"Thanks."
"Welcome."
Outside, the heat had dropped a few degrees as they headed for the black sedan.
-----
Buying the yoga mat had been a stupid idea. The human body was never designed to bend in certain directions--at least, not her body, and not in those directions. The woman on the flyer had her foot on top of her head. To Casey, that was like a neon, flashing sign reading "Do not try this at home!" And yet, when she bought the mat, she found out that was precisely where she was supposed to use it. The yoga studio had plenty of them already. She felt dumb for leaving it rolled up in the corner of her living room, but she was fairly certain she'd feel dumber sitting square on the floor in front of the television, pulling her feet over her head and trying to catch a peek at CNN from between her toes.
But today, she finally had a use for it. It was five minutes to seven as she rolled it out on the floor at Tara's gym. She shivered: it was sixty degrees in the aerobics studio, but that was a good sign. The last time she had done something like this--the time when she'd bought the mat--it had been for Bikram yoga. That, she knew, was the ultimate in sadistic torture. Painful contortions, hundred-degree heat, full humidity...Yanni on the sound system...it was evil. If Pilates was anything like that, she didn't care what favor she had promised Aaron, she was out of there.
She brushed the shorter bits of hair from her face and adjusted her yoga top. It was brand new, and her favorite shade of green. She felt it went well with her heather gray sweatpants and navy and white track shoes. Stealthily, she checked herself out in the mirror.
'Looking good,' she assured herself, and rolled the cuffs of her white ankle socks down.
Casey knew that if she focused on anything other than what she was about to do, it would help her when she tried to do it. Drum and bass music began to play in the background; she listened to that. Other women rolled out their mats behind hers and began to stretch. She copied their moves, watching them in the mirror. One woman lifted her leg up. Casey tried to put hers on her head: it still wasn't happening.
Her eyes scanned the room for the instructor. Maybe, if she was lucky, the class would begin before her quarry arrived: she could deliver her message afterward, when hell's fury had at least cooled down a few degrees. At that moment a blond woman came through the door. Their eyes met, and, as Munch would describe it later, the spark of recognition lit the bonfire of mutual loathing.
"Since when do you work out," Tara Shiler growled.
"Just started," Casey replied, slouching into a normal stance. "I heard that Pilates benefits your body and your soul."
"What, so did you ask for a 50%-off discount?" Tara spat. "Since you don't have the one, and so desperately need help with the other."
Casey glared at her. The shorter, older woman dropped her bag on the ground beside Casey's mat, arched her back, and reached up for the ceiling in a stretch.
"Besides," the former representative continued, "you were misinformed. The emphasis of Pilates is on core strength--your back and your abs, to benefit your spine."
"Oh. In that case, they must have let you in free."
Tara glowered at her. "You liberals are all the same," she hissed.
Casey started to snap a comeback, but was cut off by the instructor's microphone.
"Let's begin with a big inhale up...exhale down...and plié, inhale up...legs wide apart."
Casey copied the instructor's motions; in the plié, she felt something tear. She winced. Tara was watching her in the mirror, she knew--because in between desperate attempts to keep up with the ballet crap, she was watching Tara.
"Exhale down...and plié. Big arms, tighten those abs--don't arch your back--strong core, and inhale up..."
"Don't tell me you can't even stretch out," said Tara, just loud enough for her to hear.
She chose to ignore the comment.
"Arms in front: bring them down to the floor...and stay there."
Casey tried to keep the horrified expression off her face. Touch her toes? She couldn't do that, let alone touch the floor. But Tara's fingertips rested lightly on her mat, and Casey would not be outdone. She gritted her teeth, reached, and connected--and watched as Tara lowered to place her knuckles on the floor. Rivalry was sometimes painful; as she exhaled down to match her enemy she reminded herself that if they were at the batting cages, Tara would be the one struggling to keep up.
Even better--if they were at the cages, Casey would have a nice aluminum bat. Yes, she would have liked that bat in her hands about then, as the starved-thin blond woman grinned up at her and set her palms down flat on the floor.
"Roll it up slowly, one vertebra at a time...arms out, legs wide and take it into side lunges."
Casey realized suddenly that everyone was standing again. Her rival was leaning left, then right, her legs wide and straddling the mat. The ADA smiled--finally, something she could do. She let her mind drift back to her youth, when she was her family's "little slugger." They took her to t-ball, little league, and softball--she played for eighteen years before college ended and she switched to coaching. It was her one passion, other than the law. In fact, softball was how she got to know Aaron.
He lectured sometimes in her criminal law course years before, when she was in her second year at law school, and just starting as an assistant coach in the youth league. One day, he brought his daughter in to register for the little league--he recognized his student, and the rest was history, even though Casey never coached Jessi's team. Casey realized she probably wouldn't even recognize the girl if she saw her. She'd moved in with her mother--that rail-thin spokeswoman for mascara overuse and gender bias--and quit the league, likely because of it. The ADA didn't exactly peg Tara as a team player.
Along with the rest of the class, Casey stepped out of the lunges and into sweeps. Her mind wandered into self-reflection as she watched the other twenty lycra-sheathed bodies move fluidly with the melody-free beat. Maybe she couldn't be as pretty as the other women; maybe she didn't share their passion for shopping and tanning and matching their earrings to their coordinated little outfits. Maybe she didn't care, anyway. Her dad had wanted a boy--what he got was as close as possible. She could hit a 95-mph curve ball into the stands, and that was good enough for her.
"What did you come here for, really?" hissed Tara. "Have you got something to tell me?"
"We should go out in the hall to talk about it."
Tara snorted. "Like hell I'm wasting the money I paid for these sessions. Tell me here. Did your detectives find my daughter? What happened at her useless boyfriend's apartment?"
Casey lost her rhythm and struggled to recover.
"How did you know something happened?"
"It's kind of obvious when the police have a blockade around the place. Don't you think?"
"All right, let's do our sun salutations. Feet together and reach up..."
"So, tell me where my daughter is."
"And dive down all the way."
Casey didn't answer. She couldn't, not in this vulnerable position.
"Inhale and look up."
"I'm waiting. And you called me spineless, you liberal--"
"And exhale and look at your knees. Inhale, look up."
"If you saw the blockade, then you should know that the police did not find Jessi at Nick's apartment."
"Exhale, look down, and take the right leg back into a lunge and hold it."
"Then where is she. Didn't your detectives get him to tell you where she went?"
If Casey had been looking, she would have seen the look of shock on the other woman's face.
"The police are looking for her. Neither she nor her boyfriend have been accounted for."
"And you waited this long to tell me?" Tara was fuming, on the verge of screaming.
"And bring the other leg back to a plank, and hold it."
"I'm sorry, but you didn't leave us with many options. We tried to leave messages for you, but your voicemail was full."
Tara climbed to her feet and rolled up her mat. Casey could only see her sneakers from her push-up-like position.
"I don't believe this," Tara snapped. She was pacing angrily, as though ready to storm out of the room but unsure of the location of the door.
The instructor had stopped talking, and was looking directly at her.
"Is something wrong, Ms. Shiler?"
Casey rolled back onto her heels, thankful for the break from the pain--only to have her arm wrenched from its socket.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Casey demanded. Tara's grip on her forearm was a little too strong and she reached to pry her fingers off, but was pulled toward the door. The two grappled as Tara dragged the hapless ADA out into the main lobby.
"You incompetent idiot! Do you realize what you've done?" Tara spat.
Casey deflected a nasty right hook.
"Would you get your hands off me!" she barked, doing her best not to actively fight her attacker.
"You're making a scene!" Tara shouted.
"I'm making a scene?" Casey retorted.
Tara swung her hand up to claw at the ADA's face, but Casey was fast enough to catch her and their fingers interlaced. Tara dug her nails into Casey's flesh; Casey yelped and withdrew her hand, and was slammed backwards by a shove. She hit the glass door of the exit with her back, fell out into the street and landed on her butt on the concrete.
"That sick bastard murdered three girls and you let him get away with Jessica!" Tara stood over her, her eyes wild with hate.
Casey stood up, using her left arm to raise herself. She felt nothing--she was unaware of the crowd of people gathering, of her right arm, limp at her side, and of the two SVU detectives running along the sidewalk in her direction.
"I didn't let him get away with anything," she hissed. "That was you."
"Freeze!"
The impact of the woman's punch threw her backwards and spun her around. She never saw it coming. In slow motion, she collapsed toward the ground--Munch dived for her, catching her just before she hit.
Tara turned to run. This was a mistake--she had to get away--and the people were blocking her. She needed to get out; she had to get away from there!
"Get out of my way!" she screamed, but was grabbed from behind.
"You're under arrest," Fin growled. He wrestled the shrieking former representative to the ground and cuffed her.
"I didn't do anything!" Tara protested as she thrashed around.
Fin lifted her to her feet. "You have the right to remain silent--"
"Fin."
The younger detective looked down at his partner, kneeling beside Casey's limp form. His face was as pale as hers.
"We need an ambulance."