Disclaimer: Once again, and rather unfortunately, Bobby and Alex are property of the lucky Dick Wolf. Not me.
Author note:Has anyoneheard rumours about Bobby being kicked out of the show? News reports are all over it! I hope it isnt true. Can anyone bring some truth to the matter?
Thanks to all those who reviewed - I write the story for you!
Chapter seven: The Noose
"Silver, did you say? And how many?"
Goren scribbled the words 2 silv. amongst various other shorthanded words on the yellowing pad of paper before him. His right hand clutched the receiver to his ear. The gruff voice of the man from the Department of Motor Vehicles told him that, in New York State, seventeen vehicles had been made or upgraded with leather seats in the past 2 years. When Bobby had said that the leather was particularly worn and brown in colour, that left him with seven cars. New York City, Queens and White Plains narrowed it down to four cars. One was white, one was blue.
And two were silver.
"And where do each of the owners live, please?"
Ten minutes later Bobby slammed down the receiver, a tiny smile on his face. He told Deakins and Eames animatedly what he had found.
"There're four cars with leather seats manufactured two years ago or older."
"Why only two ye---" Bobby held up a finger, gesturing for Eames to wait until he had finished.
"One of them – a blue Nissan – is in Queens. 113th Street. Now, we can rule that out because the buildings along that street are new, and Cate said the buildings would be a hundred years plus." He consulted his notes, "The second car is white, it's a Hyundai and last week it was in a car crash off the interstate. It came from White Plains."
"Why can we eliminate that one?" asked the Captain. "Wouldn't it be practical for the perp to get rid of the car? A crash would seem like a regular incident…our unsub could just dispose of it."
Goren nodded, "I thought of that. But the perp's not finished with his hit-list yet, so he's going to need a vehicle to take him around. He wouldn't switch cars--" he said quickly, answering Deakins question before the captain opened his mouth. "—because he's insecure. He knows there's a risk that someone will find him because of the car but he thinks the risk of someone finding the car if he ditches it is much greater. So" he checked his hastily scribbled notes again. "That leaves two cars. Both are silver, both are in New York City. But there's one small difference."
Eames raised her eyebrows at the drama Bobby was putting into his performance. The look said hurry up.
"One is in Manhattan; the other is in Alphabet City."
It was clear to everyone in the room that they had found the perp. Manhattan was an urbanized city, with a skyline like a jagged piece of glass for all the buildings poking up towards the sky. Alphabet city, on the other hand, was a run-down decrepit area. When Eames was a beat cop she used to patrol that area. Now the unpleasant memory of the stench of urine and garbage came back to her.
Suddenly the office became enveloped in a flurry of activity.
"Which street!?" yelled Deakins as he ripped the phone from its cradle. "Yes, get me SAC Leonard of the FBI."
There was a pause while the call was connected, and Goren handed him the address scrawled on a piece of paper.
3 Szold Pl, New York. E 10th st and Ave D. Silver Ford Falcon.
Alphabet City lies to the east of First Ave., south of 14th street, and north of Houston street. Here, the avenues give up on numbers and adopt letters. The area is generally safe during the day, but at after nightfall the area east of Avenue B becomes a dark, brooding place, where young men walk the streets in silence sizing up anyone they pass for a fight, and the women with their dark eyes and short skirts prowl the dank and dusty nightclubs.
It was in one of these nightclubs that he now sat, the dense, smoky air compensating for his woolen coat resting on his lap. He kept his head down, and he didn't order any drinks. He was here for reconnaissance, to watch the sad and beautiful creatures of the night. He liked the feeling of satisfaction he got from being here. The feeling that he was better then these people.
The sense of power over them…that they were at his mercy….
Suddenly he picked up his jacket and fled into the night, stopping to catch his breath on a bench in Thompson Square, not far from his house.
It had been a long time since he'd been around people….people like that.
He wasn't sure he could do it again.
After, he thought, after I've cleaned up my….my mess, I'll come back here. These people look like fun...
But their eyes…seeing watching knowing probing assuming….
Sure…they're fun. For a while. Until they…until they ask questions.
I'll come back and…clean up my mess.
ADA Carver stood in the center of the room, his black face as red with anger as it could ever be.
"You don't have adequate evidence, Detective" he raged. His voice was oddly calm, though the fury in his eyes told otherwise. "You can't form an FBI-NYPD takedown team, storm someone's house and arrest them on the basis of brick and a leather seat!" Part of this was directed at Deakins, who stared at the floor ashamedly.
Goren, however, was never one to back down on something he believed was right. "It doesn't sound like much, councilor, but it's circumstantial evidence which ties the person to the scene!"
The take-down team was waiting for the green-light to invade number 3 Szold Place, the red brick house from the late 1800's. Eames had gone to the tiny by-pass avenue, and after questioning several residents she found that a silver Ford had indeed been seen in the cracked driveway, and had left not half an hour ago.
Bobby was now attired in his tactical gear; a thick Kevlar bullet-proof vest over his white shirt, and covered by his NYPD windbreaker. His Smittie was loaded and several speed-load cartridges rested in his pocket. But now he wondered if the ADA would let the operation go ahead at all.
He could see that Carver wasn't going to budge an inch. "Okay, listen. Give me an hour. I can prove to you that this is the house and this is the guy."
"Oh yeah, Detective? And how do you plan to do that?"
"I just need some evidence, that's all. And if I'm right, it shouldn't be too hard to get. Tell the spec-ops team to get ready!" He called as he ran out the door.
Scouring the scene, walking the grid. Left to right, right to left, up, back and sideways. He was looking for the one thing which would convince Carver.
A drop of blood.
Which wasn't that hard to find in a murder scene, but Goren wasn't looking for Carla Stanton's blood.
He reasoned that the woman's house had been the perp's first murder, judging by the hesitation marks on the body. Of course, the body was now six-feet under, but Bobby was an observant man and he had noticed the marks on his first examination of the body. He gripped the case file in his right hand as his left overturned leaves and rocks in the Stanton's backyard.
He thanked God that it hadn't rained. There were many contaminants of a crime scene, and the most devastating and unpredictable one was the weather.
Usually, in the perp's first murder crime, the way they stab their victim or the amount of pressure they use causes the weapon to cut the perp as well.
The Forensics team had examined every inch of the area with their unwavering concentration and hawks-eyes, but for once Goren prayed that they had missed just one tiny brown bloodspot.
But his prayers went unanswered.
Agnes L'Ingrette sat in the stiff metal chair in the lobby of One Police Plaza.
Normally a calm strong woman, at 10 o'clock last night she had found her heart stuttering with fear at the shadows dancing on her bedroom walls. So she had made up her mind to come and see what those lovely detectives could do for her. She knew that the person she had seen in the nice black man's apartment wasn't just going to go away with a slap on the wrist and a few harsh words.
"Excuse me?" she said timidly to the tough-looking security guard by the elevator door. He glanced at her with an apathetic nod. "When will I be allowed up there? I have been waiting since six this morning. It's very important." She added desperately as the security guard turned back to the elevator.
Instead she looked at the prim young lady behind a metal desk by the entranceway.
"Hello, dear," the girl looked up. She smiled at the woman. "Detective Goren said that if I needed anything I should just come here. He said I'd be allowed straight up."
"Oh, Bobby said that? Well let me check…" she flipped hurriedly through her desk-diary. "You're Agnes L'Ingrette?"
The aging woman nodded.
"Oh, well, I'm sorry to keep you waiting ma'am, but Bobby left a note saying you're not to be here. He says you'd be safer at home, and there'll be a babysitting team there at 7.30 in the morning. Have a nice day."
With her arthritic fingers twitching in anger and her head struggling to ignore the fear of the man…the man with eyes full of hatred, like gaping black holes…she walked briskly out to the street and hailed a taxi.
So, thought the shadow of a man in the ally up the street, the lady with the cats…
She won't put up much of a fight.