London After Midnight

DISCLAIMER: Okay okay, sorry about the length of the last chapter. I didn't want it to be Standard Cheesy Morning After Overkill, so I decided to keep it short and simple. Like I said, this chapter is longer and includes much more action, so I hope it makes up for it. As far as all the legal stuff mentioned in this chapter is concerned, I did do a little research, so it's probably partially correct, but don't throw stones if I'm not as accurate as an episode of Law & Order. I'm just a simple fanfic writer, after all. This is for entertainment purposes only.

MANY THANKS: Thank you Aesear, Nikki, and ShadowyFigure for your continued praise. Thank you Saskia for your first review - I hope you continue to read and enjoy the fic. Thank you canadianfan for your positive comments and good luck to you with your first CJ fic, I've read it and I think it's fabulous - everyone read This Bug's Love Life and give it a positive review! To NCCJFAN - I actually did check out your new fic even before you told me to, but I picked up right away that it was J&W so I didn't read further, lol. Sorry, but I've been known to have violent episodes if I'm exposed to anything having to do with J&W. However if anyone here ever writes a J&N fic, I want to be the first to know about it so I can shower you with love. Special thanks to Moo, because I've been such a fan of yours for such a long time and I'm honored that you reviewed my fic. Please please PLEASE update your J&N fics. I love them so much - they're what prompted me to put LAM up on here! Okay, enough idle chit chat. On with the fic!

Chapter Eleven

"The Icing on the Proverbial Cake"

Nigel

She loves me.

That's what she said. Jordan Cavanaugh loves me, no misconceptions about it. I'm not dreaming, or hoping, or overanalyzing, or letting my judgment get clouded by my feelings for her. She actually, truly loves me, and this time I know it's real because I heard it straight from the horse's mouth.

After we made love last night I was so exhausted that I fell asleep without any worries, completely clear of all doubt, and I slept for a good handful of hours before awakening with a start, not unlike the kind one might give after experiencing an incredibly lifelike, vivid dream. That's when the doubt and the fear crept up behind me for a sneak attack, and I was instantly certain that when Jordan woke up she would regret it, all of it, everything we did and all the words we said to each other. Imagine my surprise when not only was her positive outlook on the situation unaffected by sleep, but she actually called me back into the room to tell me that she loves me. I never thought it possible, not after nearly a decade of pining for her and swearing off the notion that she could ever return my affections. Imagine my surprise - just try to imagine it. You cannot. It's unfathomable.

I drive to work in a shaken daze. I pay no attention to traffic lights or crossing pedestrians. Sometimes in my joy I speed through intersections and take turns at breakneck velocity and other times I'm so focused on replaying in my head what transpired just before I left the motel that I decelerate to a near complete stop, never even noticing until I realize people walking their dogs are going faster than I am.

I reach the morgue in time to punch the clock, and I feel strangely like I'm floating as I stroll down the hall to my office, experiencing the kind of blissful apathy that a schoolboy feels when he has to endure a day in and out of meaningless classrooms in order to catch a glimpse or two of his latest crush. It's true that Jordan isn't at work today, but I'll see her afterwards, and in the meantime I have the memory of her to keep me company. Knowing all of this, somehow, the workday doesn't seem quite so long.

As I pass the locked door to her office, my eyes scroll over the name printed neatly on the frosted glass. Dr. Jordan Cavanaugh. I stop walking immediately and loiter in front of the entrance, staring at the sharp black lettering and smiling rather stupidly, I'd imagine, in keeping with the general schoolboy theme. If I had a backpack on my shoulders I'd surely be toying awkwardly with the straps, hoisting it high up on my shoulders and then letting it fall down to my elbows. But I don't have a backpack; in fact, my hands are quite free. I know this because I'm reaching up with one of them to run my fingertips along the name on the door, the slightly raised paint tickling the grooves of my skin.

"Is she in?" An urgent voice just over my shoulder. I jump about three feet in the air and yank my hand away from the glass.

"What? Who?" I sputter instinctively, my face growing hot with embarrassment. I swivel around so fast my opposite elbow whacks into the door and I grimace in pain, reaching up instantly to rub it.

"Um..." I find myself face to face with none other than Detective Woodrow Hoyt, standing there in his usual bad tie and tucked in dress shirt and shiny shoes and overcoat, his hair gelled up into a stiffened mohawk-type concoction reminiscent of Sonic the Hedgehog and guaranteed to last the entire day - God forbid it should fall out of place. He gestures to the door as if to say, The woman whose name you were just fingering, you creepy limey stalker. "Jordan," he says instead, with that permanent furrow of annoyance sutured deep into his brow. "Is she in?"

Suddenly and completely without warning, I realize I've been thrown into the very situation I've been dreaming about - practically salivating over - ever since I first laid eyes on Woodrow Hoyt.

Well, I could say, if I had large enough balls to attempt it, No, actually. Jordan isn't reporting to work today because she's simply exhausted. You may wonder how I know this. Well, I hate to be the one to break it to you, Woodrow - oh, who am I kidding? I'm enjoying every second of it. You see, I just parted with Jordan about twenty minutes ago. She's asleep in a nice little bed in a nice little motel that we spent the entire night in having quite possibly the most intense, passionate sex I've ever experienced in my life. Yes, it certainly seems that I've done more with her last night than you could ever hope to, oh and by the way, did you know that she loves me? She does. She said so herself. Has she ever told you that she loves you, Woodrow? I didn't think so. That's really just too bad. Have a lovely day, mate.

I could say that. I should say that. The words are bouncing about like Mexican jumping beans on my tongue, just itching to burst out into the open and slap him across the face with their vociferousness. But what would Jordan think of them? She might be decidedly upset if she found out I went to work and blathered about our sex life to anyone who was willing to listen. Perhaps it isn't my place to tell Woodrow Hoyt what happened last night. Perhaps Jordan would rather break it to him herself...

I never wanted to sleep with him. He saved my life once and I owe a lot to him. But not that. I don't want Woody. I want you.

Last night, those words were like a soothing aloe balm against my rough, mistreated heart, and simply remembering them right now melts me sufficiently enough to put my jealous male superiority aside. Woodrow Hoyt is no longer a threat to me. I have no reason to be anything but civil to him.

"Ahm, no," I finally reply, as nonchalant as I can make myself seem. "No, she isn't. Not today. She's probably just taking a few days off, is all. The funeral was really hard on her."

"Yeah," he agrees. "I really have to talk to her, though. We kind of had a fight the other day, after her brother... you know. After it happened. I guess I just want to try to get things back on track with us."

"Back on track?" Civility be damned. The hairs on the scruff of my neck bristle up like a rabid dog about to mark his territory and I feel myself straighten to my full height, towering suddenly a good three or four inches above Woodrow. I fold both arms over my chest. "Is that so?"

He doesn't seem to notice my possessive display, not that I'd ever expect Woodrow to have concern for my feelings. "Yeah. We kind of said some things we didn't mean and I guess I just want to say I'm sorry and give her a chance to apologize too. I was calling her all last night, but she's not picking up her landline or her cell phone. I guess she's pretty pissed at me."

"Oh?" I say, when what I really want to say is, Aye, she is. And she was with me all night, me me me, so bugger off. I keep my lips pursed and remain mum.

"Yeah. So I'll probably just pass by her apartment later. She can't ignore me forever, right?"

Wanna bet? I long to growl, to get right up into his face and spit at him. All of my guards have thrusted themselves upwards and I feel my fists tightening uncontrollably from their hiding places tucked inside the crooks of my elbows. My teeth grind together.

"No, I suppose not." My voice is flat and supine. I don't want Woodrow to pass by Jordan's apartment later. I don't want her to let him in and to sit him down and have a conversation with him. I don't want them to apologize to each other, to kiss and make up, oh God, no, never. She's my girl, Woodrow Hoyt, I love her and you can't take her away from me, I won't let you.

Every muscle in my body has tightened up so much that it aches. I have to get away from him right now before I really do say something I'll regret. "I've got to go, I have an autopsy," I murmur nearly unintelligibly, stepping quickly away from the door and continuing stiffly on down the hallway. I wish I never stopped in the first place.

The door to my office is wide open and Bug is already inside with his usual Styrofoam coffee cup, taking sporadic sips as he shuffles about, pulling out volumes from his bookcase and scanning through the pages of several large encyclopedias already opened and spread out across his desk. His computer is turned on and running a Google search and mine, I notice with contempt, is on as well and running a Yahoo search. The room has the general appearance of a sort of library explosion ground zero.

"Busy little bee today, are we, Buggles?" I ask, my voice sounding weary after my miserable run-in with Woody.

"You could say that," he replies with a lilt of excitement in his tone, his eyes darting from the books on his desk to the images on the computer screens to the contents of his coffee cup, but never once to me. "I found a veritable motherload of larvae behind the eyelids of this partial decomp we dragged from the woods? The thing is, I can't seem to identify them in any of my books. I might be onto something really huge. I've got the Entomological Foundation Hotline on hold on my phone and yours. I've been waiting to speak to a live representative for nearly..." He glances at his watch. "...Forty minutes now."

"Bloody hell," I murmur. "I didn't realize how many nutters with insect fetishes there are in this country. And it's not even half past nine yet. There must be a mutant cicada invasion going on in Pasadena or something." The path to my desk is all but completely blocked by a rolling metal tray, on which are piled more books and several dried insect specimens under glass. I reach up with one hand to rub agitatedly at my chin. This is turning out to be quite the morning. I should have stayed in bed.

Christ how I wish I'd stayed in bed.

"Actually, cicadas are only springing up again in and around the Eastern seaboard. You wouldn't find them in Peoria, let alone Pasadena." Bug turns to me for some reason, then, as if he's suddenly realized this is my office, too. I expect him to roll the tray away so I can at least get to my computer, but instead he just squints quizzically at me. "Isn't that the same shirt you wore yesterday?"

I look down at myself. I'm wearing a blue t-shirt with the geographical outline of my homeland silkscreened in the center - and England really does look something like a demented bunny rabbit, I must say.

"Yes, it certainly appears that way," I reply, unable to conceal the smirk that's begun to flourish across my lips. "Don't you like it?"

"It figures," he mutters, turning away from me as abruptly as he turned to faced me in the first place. "This morning I passed Peter practically inspecting one of the new intern's tonsils in the parking lot. Renee Walcott comes in without her entourage and makes a beeline for Dr. Macy's office, where they've been with the door locked for nearly an hour now. And Lily... I overheard Lily telling Devon about some dinner she had last night with a grief counselor she met at a convention over the weekend."

He takes a pause so long that I have to swallow in empathy. Poor Buggles. If anyone is as familiar with the woes of unrequited love as I am, then surely it's him. He spins around to face me again. "And now you. Of course you, the icing on the proverbial cake. Have I gone crazy, or is everyone in the place wearing yesterday's clothes except me?"

"I don't know," I interject on impulse, a complete knee-jerk force of habit. "I'm fairly certain Emmy wasn't wearing a yellow skirt yesterday."

Bug sighs deeply and it fills me instantly with contrition. "It was a metaphor. And it was a rhetorical question. Why do you always have to-" The sharp bleating ring of the office phone - my office phone - cuts Bug off mid-sentence, so I never do find out what I always have to do that irritates him so, though I could take a few guesses. I watch him jerk the ten-ton rolling cart to the side as if it were made of packaging foam, and I'm surprised the entire thing doesn't tip over in his haste. He frantically pounces on the phone and yanks it from the charger, holding it up to his ear. "Hello? Hello? Oh thank God I'm finally speaking to a real person. I've been waiting all morning. I think I've made a breakthrough discovery... My name? Oh... Oh, it's..." Bug is so excited, it seems, that he's lost part of his frontal lobe and can't remember his own name. He turns to me pleadingly for assistance, but all I can do is shrug and offer him a look that says, If you can't remember that thirty-two letter horror, how do you expect me to? He doesn't dignify it with a response. "My name is Dr. Mahesh Vijayaraghavensatyanaryanamurthy... no... no, wait don't hang up, this is not a prank call!! NO!!" Much to my dismay, he chucks the phone directly at the floor, causing the whole charger to topple off my desk. "SHIT! SHIT! FUCK!"

I'm just torn between strangling him and laughing my ass off when there is a soft knock on the open door and I turn around to face Emmy, yellow skirt and all.

"Um... Dr. Townsend?" she addresses me but stares wide-eyed at Bug and his temper tantrum the entire time. "Dr. Macy wants to see you in his office."

The words fill me with instant apprehension and I'm not certain why. Most probably Garret only wants to assign me a new case, or request my consultation on somebody else's. But I suppose it's just a culmination of this morning's events thus far, plus the fact that Garret sent Emmy to do his dirty work and didn't come to me himself. Something's up, I can sense it. Leaving Bug to do his own ministration, I follow Emmy down the hall.

Garret's office door is closed, but Emmy opens it for me, another bad sign. Perhaps she knows I'm about to receive the thrashing of my life and feels sorry for me. After I reluctantly cross the threshold, she closes the door behind me so quickly she nearly takes the seat of my jeans off, and then two more bad signs greet me. Garret is sitting behind his desk pretending to be so busy he hasn't noticed my arrival, and he has his glasses on. Nothing good can ever come of a conversation in which Garret Macy is wearing his glasses. A few choice rows he's had with his very own daughter in this office come to mind, and in nearly all of them he was wearing his glasses. I feel suddenly as though I've been thrown into a room with my own irritable father, bearing the guilt of some unknown but assumedly horrible thing I've done. The panicked but completely irrational thought that this has something to do with Jordan crosses my mind. I banish it just as quickly as Emmy had shut the door.

I stand there for so long in silence that it doesn't take a brain surgeon to figure out I'm supposed to speak first. "You ah..." My voice trembles a bit, betraying my nervousness. "...Wanted to see me, Dr. Macy?"

After about six more years, he looks up. "Sit down," he says, in the most serious tone imaginable, and awards the chair on the opposite side of his desk one deliberate glance. It has been placed there just for me.

I reach out and grip my hands around it, fumbling with it like a blind man trying to get a good feel for an object he cannot see. Then finally I pull it out and sit in it. A beat after I do, Garret pulls out his own chair and stands up. This can't be good. This can't be good at all.

He begins to pace. "I've been a good boss, haven't I, Nigel?"

"Ahm..." I don't like the way he used past tense in that question. "Yes, sir. Certainly. The best boss."

"And I've treated you well?"

"Impeccably," I reply, and the thing is, it's the absolute truth. "Indubitably."

"I've always given you every opportunity to explain all your harebrained conspiracy theories, to argue your points, and to prove those points with evidence that I gave you time and money to collect?"

"Yes sir," I say. "Right you are. Every opportunity."

"And if," he continues, and I get the sense he's really on a roll now, "Say, it didn't work out exactly like you planned, and you got intercepted by the police, or a lawyer, or an irritated family member of a decedent, I bailed you out repeatedly and without prejudice or concern for my own job?"

I nod faithfully. "Absolutely. Repeatedly."

He stops pacing. "Including that scrape with INS?"

At the mere mention of those initials, I feel my stomach bottom out, a lump of dread forming in my throat. Suddenly I know what this is about. "Including that scrape with INS," I repeat, my voice hushed and meek. I'm not watching Garret anymore; my eyes are glued to my hands in my lap. A child at the principal's office; the schoolboy theme continues.

Garret is quiet for several long moments, then he sits down in his chair again and folds his own hands on the desktop. "I guess you know why I called you in here now." His voice is softer and reflects the guilt I feel inside. "I got them off your back that time, Nigel, but it was temporary. Just telling them you were one of my best workers couldn't put them off forever. In the time that I bought you, you were supposed to apply for citizenship."

"I know," I say. The words are barely audible. I still don't look up.

"It's been two years since then. Why didn't you apply?"

I honestly can't muster up more than a shrug, and a few moments later, some murmured words. "It just kept slipping my mind, I suppose."

The truth is, I don't know why I haven't yet applied for US citizenship. I'm afraid, I suppose. I don't know of what. Rejection, maybe. Not being good enough for this country. Failing the test and looking incompetent. Being grilled by immigration and being asked the exact same question Garret has just asked me, and not being able to give them a solid reason. Or perhaps it's that I'm just not ready to give myself over to the United States. In my heart of hearts, I'm still an Englishman. I was born there and raised there and it's a good little island. It has its problems, but I love it just the same and I do miss it terribly. I hate to admit that I'm a patriot, but I am, and a rather large one. I'm hopelessly devoted to my homeland, God Save the Queen and all that. America is a nice country, it has given me a over decade of good memories and a decent job and every opportunity available to an illegal resident such as myself. Even more than I'm allotted, really. But I don't think I'll ever be ready to refer to myself as an American. Because... well, because I'm just not.

"Has INS called you, then?" I ask, not really wanting to know the answer to that question.

"No," Garret replies, but before I have time to breathe a sigh of relief, he adds, "But Renee Walcott did. She wants to know why an unnecessary autopsy was performed on James Horton. I wouldn't mind hearing the answer to that, either."

My head snaps up. "But... I thought you approved. I mean, I thought Jordan told you." I'm utterly perplexed.

"Jordan." He says her name as though it is the answer to everything. "I understand now. No, Nigel. Jordan did tell me, but I didn't approve. I specifically told her an autopsy wasn't necessary. James Horton committed suicide. He jumped off a building. There were witnesses in the building, on the ground, and in the air. There was no good reason for time and money to be spent doing an autopsy on him. Besides, she was a conflict of interest. I told her that if she performed an autopsy and the district attorney found out about it, there would be consequences. You know Walcott is a stickler for protocol."

"But she didn't perform the autopsy," I protest. "I did."

"We know that," comes a female voice from behind me. I don't have to turn around to know it's Renee Walcott. The door slams closed behind her and I feel the hairs on my arms stand straight up. "And conveniently, there are no autopsy reports to prove it. Care to explain that, Dr. Townsend?"

I swallow heavily and dare not turn to face her. "Jordan... she just... wanted some closure, that's all. She wanted to know things... about her brother. Things only his body could tell her. She asked me to perform an autopsy and I did. I was under the impression Dr. Macy was aware of it."

Garret opens his mouth to speak, but Renee's voice comes out. The perfect ventriloquist act. "He wasn't," she snaps, and her heels click against the floor as she circles the room to stand behind Garret's chair. "But one of your co-workers was, and brought the matter to my attention. You still haven't answered my question about the autopsy report, Dr. Townsend."

My mind is busily racing, trying to think of who could have possibly ratted Jordan and I out. As far as I can remember, no one witnessed me perform the autopsy. "Ahm... Jordan said that she figured that the district attorney's office... well, that you... would see this as a breach of protocol and that it wouldn't be well accepted overall, so she suggested that we... that I... ahm... bury the paperwork."

"And even after she told you this, you didn't stop to think that maybe Dr. Macy had disapproved?"

My hands are sweating. I wipe them on my jeans. "No, I suppose... I just didn't think about it."

"You just didn't think, or you just didn't care?" she challenges, using the voice she uses to interrogate suspects in the courtroom. The same voice she used to interrogate me about Jordan's connection to the Jeffers case.

"I..." I'm quickly running out of excuses. "Sometimes Dr. Macy will go along with things that aren't exactly... accepted by your office, if there is a good reason for them. I guess it just didn't seem out of the ordinary that he would look the other way on this."

"Because there was a good reason for it?" she presupposes.

"Yes," I reply. "Well, I think so."

"Please, then," she says, circling the desk again and sitting on the edge of it, her hands folded in her lap too, mirroring my body language but twisting it somehow into a position of authority to use to her advantage. "Tell me the reason." I'm surprised she didn't instead say, Tell the court the reason.

"Well... um..." My own lack of words astonishes me, and for the first time I realize it's because I can't think of the reason. I have no idea why Jordan really wanted that autopsy done, or the faintest idea of how to begin explaining it to someone else. I just did it for her, for Jordan, no questions asked. Because she wanted me to. Because I always give Jordan what she wants. "Um..."

Renee is now wearing her No further questions, Your Honor face, but she adds something despite it. "I don't need to remind you that this isn't the first time you've done something illegal for Jordan Cavanaugh, Dr. Townsend."

My entire face is boiling with embarrassment and anger. Somehow my run-in with Woody earlier seems to coincide with this. He does things for Jordan and is praised for it, but when I do things for Jordan I get prosecuted for it, or called her enabler. It isn't fair. "I know that," I say, clenching my teeth.

"I don't need to remind you that the last time you did, I arrested you for it."

"I know that," I say again.

"Why do you keep putting yourself on the line for her?" Suddenly her voice takes on a soothing, almost motherly tone. She's taking a different approach. She wants me to spill all my darkest secrets, tell her everything I've ever done to help Jordan feed her obsessions that the higher-ups haven't found out about yet. And it's almost working until she says something completely and utterly untrue. "Has it ever occurred to you that she may only be using you?"

"No," I cry, finally raising my head to look the horrible bitch in the eye. "Absolutely not. You just don't understand Jordan, that's all. She's committed. She's incredibly committed, to her family and to her job, and when she has a gut feeling that there's something wrong, she acts on it and does everything in her power to set things right, even if she has to break your precious protocol in the process. All she wanted was to find out a bit about her own brother. If he was drugged, or depressed, or injured, or starving. Up until a year ago, she didn't even know he existed and because of your witch hunt for him she barely had any time to get to know him at all. Her father won't tell her anything. All that was left for her to consult was James's body. She didn't do anything wrong, and neither did I, and I'd help her again and again so long as she asked me to because I trust her."

"Even if that meant continuing to break not only my precious protocol, but the law?" It seems I was duped, after all. She's planned every question she asks, and knew all of my reactions beforehand. I wonder if she's ever lost a case.

"I think so," I say before I can stop myself. "Yes. As long as I felt it was justified."

"Conspiracy to commit a crime is a serious offense in this country, Dr. Townsend." She's practically smiling now. "Especially considering your refusal to apply for citizenship thus far. I don't think INS would be pleased to know of all the crimes you've already committed while helping Jordan Cavanaugh, of which there are many." She reaches behind her and produces a sheet of paper from somewhere amidst the clutter of Garret's desk and begins to read from a list. "Trespassing, breaking and entering, obstruction of justice, using morgue property and government funding for personal investigations, not to mention hacking into numerous federal databases in order to acquire classified information - I understand that's your specialty. Shall I go on?"

"No," I manage to wearily croak.

"Do you feel all of this," she waves the paper in the air to acknowledge it as the subject, "Was justified?"

I take a moment to decide on an appropriate answer. In the end, I choose the truth. "Yes," I say. "I think it was."

"Well," Walcott sighs with an air of finality, and stands from the desk. "I happen to disagree with you, Dr. Townsend. Now normally all of this is enough grounds to get you fired, but I understand Dr. Macy takes a particular liking to you, and if Jordan Cavanaugh still has a job here then I suppose there aren't grounds enough for anyone in the world to ever get fired from this place, no matter what they do. I am leaving the future of your employment here up to Dr. Macy. But as far as the U.S. government is concerned, I think they've given you more than enough chances to prove your worthiness. I understand you still have not applied for citizenship, and to put it in layman's terms, that is a big no-no. I put in a call to an INS agent this morning, who informed me they've been having a bit of trouble getting a hold of you lately. In any case, they asked me to pass this information along to you. You are being deported, Dr. Townsend."

The news hits me like a blow between the eyes from a boxing glove. "...What?" I ask, dumbfounded.

"Don't look so surprised. You had to know this was going to happen sooner or later. You've ignored every phone call, every letter... all of your Notices To Appear. You've been given court date after court date and haven't shown up at any of them. Judges don't usually acquit defendants who do that sort of thing. An official notice has been sent through the mail today with the exact date you are to leave the country. I would think you have at least a couple of weeks to get your affairs in order. Now once you're back in England, I'm sure you can appeal this decision and apply for a new Visa to re-enter the United States, but that process could take... well, they say thirty days, but we both know it's almost always as much as six months. Once you're back, I'd advise you to apply for citizenship immediately. You're going to need a very good lawyer for all of this. I'm sorry, but my going rate is considerably more than you can afford."

She stands from the desk and starts toward the door, as though she's finished. "Why... why are you doing this?" I barely manage to sputter.

She turns around in the doorway. "I'm not doing anything. INS has you on its hit list because you've stayed here on a student Visa for well over ten years past the expiration date and have made no attempt to apply for citizenship since. I was kind enough not to inform them of your indiscretions where the law is concerned, and chances are they'll never find out because you haven't been prosecuted for any of it. They should be fairly easy on you when you appeal their decision. After all, they're out to get terrorists now, not lazy Englishmen. You're a lucky man, Dr. Townsend, but consider this a warning. You can't go through life breaking whichever rules you see fit and still expect to not suffer any consequences. Things don't work that way here. Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I'm late for a meeting."

And then District Attorney Renee Walcott is gone, my entire life crushed beneath her authoritative taupe slingbacks.