Title: The Turning of the Leaves
Author: Mercaque
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Drama
Author's Notes: See end of chapter
Summary: Three years after the events of "Loss," Alex Cabot its told it's safe to return to New York City. But is she ready for the tremendous changes that await her?
Disclaimer: SVU characters belong to Dick Wolf. Original characters, such as they are, belong to me.

CHAPTER 3

Fin and I end up abandoning our tea in favor of meeting Munch at a neighborhood diner.

He had elected not to mention my presence to Munch over the phone, something for which I'm secretly glad. I haven't mentioned any critical information over the phone in three years; I still carry a residual, and admittedly irrational, fear of phone taps. All Fin would say was that Munch HAD to be there for lunch.

It's a short drive to the diner, and I spend most of my time peering out the car window like a little girl. Normally I'd feel self-conscious, but not today. Today, I'm back in the city, and even beneath the cold marbled sky, Queens' neighborhoods pulse with life. Fin is quiet for most of the drive, but when I glance at him in the rearview mirror, I see an indulgent smile curving his lips.

We nab a parking spot just down the street from the diner. Though the walk is only a block, it proves surprisingly grueling. The stinging cold air brings painful tears to my eyes and chafes my exposed ears. From the looks of it, Fin doesn't have it much better as he ducks his head against the fierce wind.

It still pains me to watch him limp laboriously alongside me. I'm half tempted to give him my arm, to help him along, but I know the gesture would do little more than patronize him and embarrass me. I settle for keeping my stride deliberately slow – but hopefully, still natural – so as not to accidentally outpace him. With a pang of guilt, I wonder if he can tell that's what I'm doing.

I bite my lip self-consciously and look forward, narrowing my eyes against the wind.

And that's when I spot John Munch.

His spindly frame is unmistakable, as are his black hat, black overcoat and dark red sunglasses. He's leaning just outside the diner door, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his thin shoulders hunched against the merciless wind.

My heart thunders in my chest, just as it did when I stood on Fin's doorstep. I'm almost afraid to see him – especially after the rude surprises I got from Fin – but for all that, I cannot deny that I'm tremendously happy to see him, happy that he's alive. I feel my stride quicken involuntarily.

Munch straightens when he notices us approaching, lifting his hand in a casual wave. But he stops abruptly when he sees Fin is not alone. As we approach, he cocks his head and peers closer.

And his mouth falls open in raw shock as he realizes who I am.

"Hey, Munch." Fin's greeting is casual, as if there's nothing out of the ordinary.

"Cabot...?" Munch breathes. He pulls off his sunglasses and stares openly, his weatherbeaten features softening with shock, with disbelief, with wonder. His voice is brittle. "I must be getting delusional in my old age..."

"I told you this'd be worth your time." Fin smiles encouragingly at the older man.

"You didn't mention this to me." Munch's voice is a strained murmur. His eyes rake me over several times before settling on my face, as if it takes him that many tries to accept what he's seeing. "I thought you were..."

"I know," I interrupt as gently as possible, almost wishing he'd greeted me with one of his typically acerbic bon mots. I'd always thought of Munch as one of life's constants – the same black wardrobe, the same dry presence, the same vinegared barbs. To see him actually display naked emotion at my return... it's unnerving. Did he always have the same weary melancholy, or had I simply forgotten it in the fog of the last three years?

It takes me a moment to find my voice again. "Why don't we head in, and we can talk?"

Munch nods and replaces his sunglasses. His wry demeanor finally returns, but it seems somehow worn and tired. His eyes still flicker with incredulity.

A final, harsh gust of wind follows us into the diner. As we remove our jackets – and Munch and Fin their hats – I glance around. Battered wooden booths line the dark walls, each lit only by the muted golden light of a tiny tabletop lamp. The air smells of coffee, old smoke and hot greasy breakfasts. Dim and cavelike though it is, the restaurant buzzes with life; it's a sea of clinking silverware and chattering customers and harried waitresses.

For all the noise, this place feels cozy. Secretive, even. I feel myself relax slightly.

Fin jerks his head to catch a plump, blonde waitress' attention. "Three, please."

She nods, and in moments, she's leading us toward a boxy, high-backed booth in the back of the restaurant.

As we're walking to the table – shambling, really, to keep pace with Fin – Munch speaks quietly. "It's..." He stops. "If it's really you, I'm glad to have you back."

"Thank you," I answer quietly. Again, my chest constricts at the genuine emotion in his voice.

The waitress – Marie, her nametag says – gestures us briskly into our seats and passes out menus. Grunting, Fin lowers himself stiffly into the booth. Munch hovers over him for a moment, holding out his arm in a useless attempt to help; Fin rejects the gesture with an impatient shake of his head. The older detective's shoulders sag defeatedly before he slides in next to Fin.

It's a mystifying exchange, but I decide to ignore it for now. I'm not comfortable enough to inquire just yet. Feigning obliviousness, I slide into the opposite seat and order a cup of coffee. Munch and Fin order the same, and Marie jots it down and bustles away.

"So would someone care to explain what's going on here?" Munch asks when she's safely out of earshot. "I appear to be the only person at this table who's not on board the clue train."

"Well..." I begin nervously. Suddenly, lunch seems like a bad idea; I'm not certain I want to explain this in a public place. The same irrational anxiety is rising in my throat, and I'm struggling to push it down. "You see, after Zapata..."

"Hey." Fin holds up a knowing hand, interrupting me. "I got it." He claps Munch's thin arm, leans in, and whispers briefly to the older man.

"I see," Munch says quietly, a look of comprehension dawning on his face.

I give him a long, apologetic glance before turning to Fin. "Thanks."

"No problem," Fin answers with a calm smile. "I figure you're going to be explaining this plenty of times as it is."

"Yeah," I laugh self-consciously. In reality, it's only just hit me that I'm probably going to have to have a separate "I was in the witness protection program" conversation with every single person I'd left behind.

"That's how it is with the leg," Fin continues, his clear eyes filled with dry sympathy. "Everybody I meet's gotta ask sooner or later."

Munch's eyes flicker guiltily to his ex-partner, but he says nothing.

I feel a sudden stab of remorse as I recall my own dumbstruck reaction to Fin's injury. My voice is low, apologetic. "I didn't mean to make you do that again."

"Oh come on now," Fin laughs, "you're a pretty exceptional circumstance. You've been gone for – how many years now? I'm sure my crippledom ain't the most burning question you're going to have." He sits back and smiles gently. "Besides, as I recall, I brought it up."

"Yeah," I muse. "You're right about that — about the questions, I mean."

Munch leans forward. "May I ask where you were?"

"Town called Annapolis." I'm startled realize the last three years already feel like a long, gray coma.

"Annapolis, Maryland?!" Munch's eyebrows shoot up from behind his sunglasses, and for the first time, he seems to truly come alive. "You've got to be kidding me. I spent 20 years working homicide in the festering hellhole known as Baltimore."

"That's right," I reply. My eyes lock with his for a moment, and I feel a surge of affinity with the veteran detective. A small – but very real – smile breaks across my face. "I don't think I ever made it up there, though."

"Well, count your blessings," he snorts derisively. "Although, with 20/20 hindsight, I realize I should've gone for the Annapolis homicide unit. I would've only had to work about once every two years."

"Trust me, that gets pretty old after a while." I laugh. "I just spent the last three years doing nothing but busy work."

Munch grimaces. "These days, I'd kill for even that much."

"You're not...?" Somehow, I'd just assumed he had transferred to another unit.

"Retired." He smiles, but it's bitter. "Second time in less than a decade, which I'm sure is some kind of record."

I open my mouth to ask, but get interrupted by Marie's return to our table. She sets three mugs of steaming black coffee before us. After taking our lunch orders – a pastrami on rye for Munch and "breakfast" for myself and Fin – she once again hurries away.

The table is quiet for a long moment; nobody's quite sure how to pick the conversation up again. I swirl the spoon around in my coffee, listening to the subdued roar of the diner around me and contemplating my next question. The precinct had been so different, I muse. I hadn't known anybody; I'd felt like an intruder in a workplace that had once been filled with friends.

I think back to the seemingly interminable hours I spent filing papers and organizing databanks in my Annapolis office job. How much time did I waste, while Fin got injured, while Cragen passed away, while the entire special victims unit was apparently turned on its head?

"What the hell happened to everybody?" I finally blurt out. "I went down to the precinct this morning..." I wave my spoon for an inarticulate moment. "There was nobody there."

Fin purses his lips sympathetically before murmuring to his former partner. "She doesn't know about – you know, the sweep."

"Ah." Munch tilts his head at me sympathetically.

Fin takes a slow sip of coffee. "To be honest, that's why I wanted to get Munch down here. I missed a lot of this stuff when I was in the hospital."

"I take it you weren't a regular subscriber to the city papers?" Munch asks. "The headline writers down at the Post spared no opportunity to sharpen their pens..."

"No, I wasn't." I'm trying to keep it light, but my voice has an impatient edge I can't entirely control.

"Well, you missed out on quite the scandal." From his tone of voice, it's as if I skipped the office Christmas party. "Although the DA's office was actually one of the few parties to emerge with its honor intact. Which is impressive, considering we managed to get several major law enforcement agencies and a few organized crime syndicates involved, plus god knows who else."

"He finally got to be part of one of his own conspiracy theories," Fin cuts in with a lopsided smile.

"Hey, I was only an accessory," Munch protests bitingly. "I wasn't involved in the actual conspiracy. Which, by the way, was no mere 'theory' this time."

"Whatever. They still got you for it," Fin chuckles.

"Come on, it was hard not to be involved," Munch answers, his features enlivened by a wry chuckle. "Everybody and their mother got indicted at some point. I wouldn't be surprised if COMINTERN had resurrected itself to lend a hand."

"Excuse my bluntness," I interrupt, "but what the hell are you two talking about?"

The two men share a surprised laugh, and even I have to chuckle at their embarrassed expressions.

"Where do I even begin?" Munch muses. "A lot went down while you were gone..."

I resist the urge to throttle him; if nothing else, I am well aware of that particular fact. I fire a shot in the dark. "Okay, where's Olivia?"

Both men freeze, the smiles dying instantly on their faces.

"Olivia..." Munch hedges, his thin shoulders sinking. "Maybe I'd better start from the beginning."

"All right," I answer with a calmness I do not feel. My heart pounds as I wonder what could have happened to inspire such an eerie reaction.

"You know she was pretty upset when you, uh... died," Munch begins hesitantly.

"Yeah, I do," I murmur, remembering our final goodbye. I wanted to say so much to her, but the DEA guys were pulling me away and her brown eyes were filling with tears...

"You do?" Munch asks in surprise.

"I—" It's not my fault they weren't told the truth, but I feel guilty all the same. "I saw them right before I left."

"You saw them?" Munch looks marginally hurt. His gaze slides sideways to meet Fin's. "I'm insulted. Were YOU invited to this little soiree?"

"No," Fin answers. "I'm feelin' a bit left out myself."

"It wasn't like that," I protest. "I had to beg and plead to get them to let me see anybody. I didn't exactly have the run of things, I had just been shot, and they were sworn to secrecy..."

"Whoa, relax," Fin interrupts, laughing. "Look, I used to work narcotics – I know the kind of hiding you need to do to get away from the Cartel. I probably wouldn't respect Elliot and Olivia if they HAD told me."

"Well, I would," Munch retorts. "I'll have to take it up with our esteemed former colleagues the next time I see them."

"Yeah, like that's going to be anytime soon," Fin mumbles. He's joking, but the older detective seems slightly wounded by the comment.

"What do you mean, that's not going to be anytime soon?" I cut in anxiously. "What happened?"

"It ain't the detectives, it's " Fin begins, but he stops guiltily short. "Anyway, about Olivia..."

Munch scowls briefly before resuming the story. "Yes, Olivia. She... didn't take it very well when you left. You know, she'd lost her mother a relatively short time earlier. Then we all lost Don..." He trails off, shaking his head. "And then we all entered into a time I fondly refer to as the dark ages."

"Remember how I told you we had a lot of disarray after Cragen died?" Fin interjects. "That was the dark ages."

"I'm sure our various replacement captains were very nice people," Munch says, his voice curdling slightly. "But – to make something of an understatement – they weren't cut out for special victims. We had about as much hope for competent leadership as George W. Bush does of finishing Crime and Punishment. Long story short, morale dropped through the floor." His gaze flickers to Fin for a painful moment. "Especially after one of our star detectives wound up in the hospital."

Fin gives his former partner a long look – somewhere between frustration and pity – before making a pointed attempt to get the discussion back on track. "But Olivia did open up to some people, right?"

"Yeah." Munch's expression is still pained, but he pulls himself back to the conversation at hand. "For starters, we still had an in-house shrink. Talk about a job you couldn't pay me enough to do."

"Doctor Huang?" I ask, holding back a sudden flood of curiosity as to his whereabouts.

Munch nods. "He and Olivia became rather close after your 'death.'" A perturbed look crosses his face. "Not close in a 'Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice' sort of way, although some people speculated. Made for a very interesting office pool, at least."

I can't keep a vaguely disturbed look off my face as I contemplate the possibility of Olivia and George Huang having an affair.

Fin catches my eye and chuckles. "Wasn't like that at all," he laughs. "TRUST me."

I cock my head, wondering exactly what that means. But before I can ask, our waitress returns with lunch. Marie sets three plates before us, and for the first time in ages, I find myself ravenously, painfully hungry. I don't know if I'm happy to be back in the city, or if I'm just eating more in response to the cold weather. But whatever the reason, I dig into my eggs and toast and fruit with a sudden vigor.

From the looks of it, Munch and Fin are equally hungry. We spend a busily quiet moment eating before Munch picks up the conversation again.

"Meanwhile," he continues, blithely waving his sandwich, "Olivia had also gotten chummy with some guys from the narcotics unit. Said she was thinking about a transfer. I couldn't really blame her, considering the sorry state of our dear leaders."

"I had put her in touch with some guys I used to work with," Fin adds. "Thought she could use all the friends she could get."

"Ouch," I murmur.

He winces. "Didn't quite mean it like that." He chews thoughtfully on a slice of toast for a moment. "To be honest, I also thought narcotics could use a good cop like Olivia. 'Cause at the time, they were straight-up drowning."

"Drowning?" I ask. This is news to me.

Munch nods. "In you name it. Drugs, informants, corpses..."

I put down my fork in surprise. "They were? Why?"

"Well, that all goes back to our old friend Cesar Velez." Munch leans back and eyes me over the rims of his sunglasses.

"Oh, really?" I'm trying to sound casual, but there's a faint tremor of fear in my voice. Rationally, I know he's no longer a threat to me; emotionally, I still half-expect him to leap out of the shadows.

Munch nods. "The Cartel was doing what all those self-important Wall Street goons love to drone on about – diversifying their portfolio. Meaning they were trying to expand beyond their little mom-and-pop cocaine business."

"They had their eyes on opium," Fin informs me through a mouthful of toast. He swallows. "Problem is, the opium market's already pretty much Triad territory. They're Chinese, and they run it out of the Golden Triangle."

"Okay," I agree. I had never really paid attention to drug wars in my time as an ADA. This is getting awfully close to going over my head – and I'm still not sure how this relates to a scandal.

"Now," Munch continues, "as a result of Velez's entrepreneurial spirit, the Cartel began to push up against the Triads, who naturally started pushing back. Before you know it, the NYPD – and narcotics in particular – is stuck playing janitor to a low-level gang war." He exhales sharply, shaking his head in disgust.

"My god," I murmur, trying to imagine what the climate in the city must have been like.

"Yeah, well, the good news is that it didn't last forever," Munch says. "The bad news is that was mainly due to a series of sweeping victories by the Triads."

"That's putting it mildly," Fin laughs. "The Triads took the Cartel to school. They started intercepting some key shipments, and when Velez's guys retaliated, they killed off three local Colombian big shots."

"The type of efficiency the DEA can only dream about," Munch snorts.

I nod, taking all that in. Though I'm still not completely sure where this story is going, I feel a morbid vindication at the Cartel's misfortunes. I know the Triads are probably no better than Cesar Velez, but with a prick of guilt, I realize I don't care. That Velez's cronies – men like Raphael Zapata – should die at the hands of brutal drug lords almost feels like poetic justice.

"Now, how do you think the Triads suddenly made this great leap forward?" Munch interrupts my thoughts.

Startled, I jerk back to attention. "I don't know. How?"

"Well, funny you should ask, since the FBI started to wonder the same thing." He lifts an eyebrow. "Especially since the information upon which the Triads appeared to be acting was suspiciously similar to information its own agents had collected."

I'm puzzled for a minute, but then the answer hits me. "You're saying there was a leak."

"Right," he agrees. "The Feds started investigating. Three guesses where they traced it to."

I look nervously from Munch to Fin and back. I have a creeping feeling I'm not going to like the answer to this. I shrug helplessly.

Fin spits it out bitterly. "Narcotics unit. NYPD."

"What?" I demand. My head is beginning to swim. "Let me get this straight. You're saying the narcotics unit gave the Triads information the FBI had collected."

"I knew you were a feared prosecutor for a reason." Munch is teasing, but there's no malice in his voice.

"But that doesn't make any sense." I feel hopelessly out of the loop, and I don't even want to fathom what this might have to do with Olivia.

"Sure it does," Munch answers. "Narcotics had simply decided to divide and conquer. You know, even the playing field. Let the Cartel and the Triads pick each other off, then move in for the kill." He shrugs. "I like to think of it as outsourcing."

"But you're talking about directly assisting gang warfare," I protest sharply.

"Look, you saw what the Cartel is like." Fin leans forward suddenly, his voice low and grave. "They're fuckin' ruthless, and we can't even play by their rules. We're the NYPD, and we have to follow procedure. We can't just blow people up in their cars when they get in our way."

"Yeah, only the CIA is allowed to do that," Munch chimes in.

I laugh bitterly. The mention of car bombs is painful; Tim Donovan's earnest face floats up in my mind.

"It's like we were fighting them with one hand tied behind our back," Fin continues. "Some people felt that helping the Triads was like bringing in a friend who could fight with both hands."

"Both hands and brass knuckles," Munch mutters.

I sit back and stab defeatedly at my scrambled eggs. I hadn't had a problem with the Triads killing Velez; why should I have a problem with the NYPD helping them do so? Because, I answer myself, it's one thing for the Triads to be corrupt. It's quite another for the NYPD to get in bed with them.

My shoulders sag. Those youthful, fresh-out-of-law-school ideals I once had suddenly seem even more hazy and remote than when I was living in Annapolis.

"Okay," I finally acknowledge. "So what happened?"

"Well, unfortunately for narcotics, they neglected to inform anybody else of this little war plan," Munch replies. "Including the brass."

"Not that the brass would've helped," Fin interrupts bitterly. "You gotta keep in mind, the FBI, and the DEA for that matter, they hate to share information. You saw that – you know, on your case." He doesn't need to elaborate; I know he means the Zapata case.

I nod grimly. "They certainly knew how to stonewall."

"Exactly," Munch says. "The FBI, in particular, is known for its tightfisted attitude towards its 'intelligence' – although I use the term loosely. They immediately launched an investigation."

"Yeah..." I prod him along cautiously.

Munch's lips tighten. "And, since the information was helping a Chinese gang, who do you think they targeted in their investigation?"

My gaze darts nervously to the side. "Who?"

"Racial profiling," Fin grumbles. "Except they hit the Asians this time."

"Now, think about it," Munch says quietly. "Who's the FBI agent you know best who might happen to fit that profile?"

My stomach quietly flips over. I don't want to say it out loud, but... "Doctor Huang, of course."

The older detective nods cryptically. "Indeed."

"Indeed what, exactly?" I demand.

Munch's lips tighten. "Something the good doctor did – and I'd love to know exactly what – caught the investigators' attention. They managed to connect him to Olivia, and Olivia to narcotics."

"Rumor was he failed a psych test," Fin murmurs.

Munch turns to him with a look of surprise. "What, really?"

"Yeah, shrinks get tested all the time," Fin replies.

"Excuse me, what?" My voice is a little shriller than I intend; out of the corner of my eye, I see the heads of nearby diners turn. "What the hell do you mean by 'connected them'?"

"Not so loud," Fin murmurs.

"Connected them, as in, traced the flow of information," Munch clarifies. He gives me a knowing look over the rims of his shades. "From the FBI to narcotics to the Triads. Don't ask me the specifics."

"Oh, come on," I scoff. "There is no possible way. He's a psychiatrist, for god's sake."

"Well, that's what everybody thought." Munch's voice is subdued. "Until he confessed."

"What?" I gasp. I sit back, reeling in shock. I can't muster anything above a murmur of denial. "That's impossible. There's just no way..."

"Apparently, there was," Munch answers. "I'd say I gained a bit of respect for the guy."

"You would," Fin laughs.

"Well, think about it. You'd never suspect Huang of stealing office supplies, much less classified information. It was brilliant."

I close my eyes and press a hand to my forehead. I'm dimly aware that Munch and Fin are still talking, but their conversation is fading into silence along with the rest of the ambient noise of the diner. All I can hear is my own mind insisting that this cannot, cannot, cannot be what happened. My previously ravenous appetite is gone; I feel downright nauseous when I look at the remaining food on my plate.

"...I know. It's a fuckin' travesty," Fin is saying when I finally rejoin their conversation. "I knew a lot of those guys. Not to mention Olivia..."

"What happened to them?" I finally force myself to ask. Even my own flat, numb voice sounds like it's coming from someone else.

Munch eyes me for a sympathetic moment before answering. "Olivia went to prison."

I nod dumbly, trying to force back tears at the mental image. "And Huang?"

"He only got fired – FBI privilege, apparently." He chuckles, but it's humorless. "He's in some desk job down at Bellevue now. If you ask me, Olivia got the better deal."

I let out a heavy breath, as though my body wants to expel the news I've just heard. I'm almost afraid to ask anything more, but I have to. "What about Elliot?"

"Hoo, boy," Munch sighs. "Obstruction charge."

I close my eyes briefly. At this point, it just seems natural that the scandal reached him too. "Dare I even ask?"

Munch grimaces. "Look, it's an office full of detectives. We all figured out sooner or later that Olivia's extracurricular activities weren't completely legit, including Elliot." He sighs. "No, especially Elliot. He was her partner, after all."

"He stayed loyal, you gotta give him that," says Fin.

"Yeah, unfortunately, that loyalty included furnishing Olivia with a series of false alibis," Munch answers. "Of course, that wasn't the only thing they got him for, but it was probably the most blatant."

"What happened to him?"

"He's on probation," Munch answers. "They shuffled him off to Children's Services in Jersey. Again, Olivia probably got the better deal..."

Fin shrugs matter-of-factly, ignoring Munch's joke. "It wasn't an entirely bad move for him. He was startin' to stress a little too much in special victims."

"Well, didn't we all?" I ask, remembering some of the worse crimes I'd had to prosecute.

"I guess so," Fin answers dubiously. I tilt my head curiously, wondering if there's more to the story than mere stress.

"Elliot's real punishment," Munch interrupts, "was Kathy's reaction when she found out he was throwing his career out the window for Olivia's sake. I'm sure you can imagine how thrilled she was to get THAT news." Munch shakes his head. "He got a pink slip and divorce papers on the same day, a feat even I can't claim to have accomplished."

"Jesus Christ," I breathe.

"You said it," Fin agrees quietly.

My chest feels tight. Olivia, Huang, Elliot... ruined. To say nothing of Cragen, or even the hobbled Fin...

I look up at Munch, suddenly realizing he's left himself entirely out of the story. "What about you?"

A lazy smile lifts one side of his mouth. "Oh, they got me for obstruction too."

"What!"

He sits back with a self-satisfied grin. "I just told them I saw no evil, heard no evil, and spoke no evil. In return, I was 'strongly encouraged' to take an early retirement package."

"What, with benefits and everything?"

"You think I'd take it if I didn't?" Munch smirks. "Besides, it got me away from that goose-stepping idiot I had for a partner."

"Hey, that goose-stepping idiot's my partner now," Fin answers with a grim laugh. He looks up at me. "You didn't happen to see a blond buzzed guy down at the precinct, did you?"

I dimly remember someone matching that description. "Yeah, kind of intense?"

Fin rolls his eyes. "That's him. Guy named Strauss. Used to be Munch's partner, until he narced."

"Narced?" I ask.

"Told the investigators Munch knew more than he was letting on." Fin looks disgusted.

Munch sighs melodramatically. "I should've known a guy named Strauss would like nothing better than to turn a Jew over to the authorities."

Fin laughs. "I knew you needed my black ass."

"I never doubted it," Munch answers. His smile vanishes suddenly, a shadow of guilt creeping into its place. His gaunt shoulders sag quietly.

His abrupt shift in mood seems to infect the whole table. Fin's encouraging smile fades as well; his eyes have that same mixture of frustration and pity as before. I remember Fin telling me that Munch felt responsible for his injury, and I now realize that if anything, he was understating matters. From the looks of it, Munch is being eaten alive with remorse.

I open my mouth helplessly, wanting to offer something that will make things right, but I have no idea what to say.

"Wasn't your fault, man," Fin finally murmurs. "How many times I gotta tell you?"

Munch seems to deflate even further. After a long moment, he attempts a casual shrug; the gesture is so forced it has the exact opposite effect. "Just forget it, all right?"

"Hey, I have," Fin shoots back. "It's you who can't let it go."

"For god's sake, how could I?" Munch's voice breaks. "You have no idea what you looked like..."

"Look, my old partner took a bullet for me, you think I don't still feel that every day?" Fin cries. "But you know what? I learned how to live with it. I moved the fuck on. I didn't become some goddamn recluse."

My gaze swings over to Munch in surprise; I always knew he'd been a solitary figure, but this accusation is new.

"Oh, that's your attitude now?" Munch's voice drips acid. "I thought it was my fault you were, and I quote, 'a fucking cripple.' Now, what? I'm supposed to be part of the neighborhood welcome wagon?"

"You know I didn't mean that," Fin protests defensively. "I was frustrated..."

Munch shakes his head and looks away.

A strained silence descends. Again, I want desperately to say something, to bridge the chasm that seems to have opened up between the two men, but I can think of nothing that seems remotely appropriate.

After a long moment, Munch murmurs softly to no one in particular. "You were right, though."

Fin's eyes flutter closed; he seems to have lost the will to fight. "Whatever."

We sit in tense silence for the remainder of the meal. It's an unspoken relief when Marie returns and obliviously drops our check on the table.

When we part ways outside the diner, I'm still reeling – from the news of my old colleagues and from the bizarre turn of conversation at the end. Munch and I share a brief hug and a promise to keep in touch, but the awkwardness is so thick I'm not sure how likely that is.

After Munch leaves, Fin and I head back to the car. The uneasy silence seems to follow us; I'm not sure how to address what just happened.

Fortunately, I don't have to.

"You're probably wonderin' what the hell that was about." Fin glances at me hesitantly.

"Oh – well..." I hedge. I'm afraid to pry too deeply, but then again, he brought it up. "What did you mean by 'a goddamn recluse'?"

Fin grimaces. "Munch doesn't get out much since he lost his job," he answers. "He doesn't have too many people in his life, you know? No wife, no kids, no job. I try and do what I can, but..." He shrugs helplessly.

A cold shiver runs down my back; only three weeks ago, my existence felt equally bleak. "I guess he doesn't think he has anything to look forward to."

His gaze swings to me. "That's exactly what worries me." His jaw tightens. "You know his dad killed himself?"

I feel my heart drop out. That possibility hadn't even occurred to me. "No, I didn't."

"Don't know the details. But they say that kind of thing tends to run in families." Fin shakes his head. "That's what really worries me."

"Yeah," I answer quietly. With a sudden surge of determination, I decide I'm going to reach out to Munch as much as possible. I'm re-establishing ties with everybody else, so I may as well make the extra effort. It's something I might have appreciated in Annapolis...

"I just gotta say, I think you were good for him." When Fin speaks, it's as if he's reading my thoughts. "Today was the first time I saw any of the old Munch."

I blink, startled and a little embarrassed at the compliment. "Well, you seem to be doing a good deal for him," I offer.

Fin scowls. "Whatever. I'm a reminder of something he'd rather forget."

"He'll appreciate it someday." I clap Fin on the shoulder. It's a weak gesture of camaraderie, but it's all I have. "I know I would."

-END CHAPTER 3-

A/N: Whew! This chapter was really tough to write, partially because there's so much exposition and partially because Munch and Fin are always a challenge to capture on paper. I hope you enjoyed it. Of course, even if you didn't, constructive criticism is always welcome.

The scandal described above is actually "ripped from the headlines" (ha) – it's loosely based on a scandal that involved the FBI in Boston, which really did assist rival gangs in order to take down the local mafia. Very few – if any – of the agents received anything more than token punishments, so that aspect of the story is true as well. (In fact, one of the earliest drafts of this story had Huang going to prison too, but I couldn't for the LIFE of me find any stories or information on FBI agents being incarcerated. Except in international espionage cases, but that didn't really seem to apply here.)

It's also true that the FBI is notorious for not sharing information with local law enforcement agencies, including the NYPD, and that real resentment exists on that score.

Looking up organized crime and drug running also turned out to be pretty interesting. The BBC, in particular, was a good source of information. (For example, that's where I learned the Cartel actually does dabble in the opium trade.) The so-called "Triads," on the other hand, were "borrowed" from Grand Theft Auto III – mainly because even the real Chinese gang names I found sounded kinda fakey within the story.

On the other end of the knowledge spectrum, I went through several drafts of this chapter before it hit me that Munch was previously in Baltimore. I put Cabot in Annapolis mainly because I used to live there and I thought I could describe it pretty well – turned out to be a nifty coincidence, eh?

If you've read this far... well, first of all, thanks! And second of all, you're probably wondering what the heck was going on with Huang. Worry not – we'll hear it straight from the horse's mouth in the next installment.