Before the quiet between them, the acceptance, there'd been a little noise.
That first year she could have cheerfully kneed his balls right up through the roof of his mouth on several occasions.
Without blinking. Completely justified. No jury would convict.
"Don't you walk out of here on me, you Arrogant Side-of-Beef!" she'd barked at him in the conference room after work one night.
He eyed her darkly.
"That all you got? Nothing but snark? Snarky Little Witch," he dismissed her with a roll of his eyes, a wave of his hand.
But she stood her ground, no sweat.
Which was unsettling.
And she was blocking the door.
Bite me, jackass, she thought.
Go to hell, Thumbelina, he thought back.
Alex knew that in most places in life, one can get along by being polite. Occasionally, direct. One can even employ avoidance, if need be.
In most places this works well enough.
Hell, she knew from experience that this formula did work. The fact that she was on speaking terms with her mother right now was proof of that.
There were three instances that she could think of, however, in which this did not work.
If one wanted to be successful, that is.
Rock Bands.
Marriage.
And, Detective Partnerships.
If you don't learn how to fight, you don't have a chance in hell of surviving.
Nearly four years ago Alex Eames had been partnered with the infamous Robert Goren. He hadn't been exactly enthusiastic about this fourth new partner in as many years. Didn't even bother reading her file before he met her. What was the point? Hadn't even known she was a she until they met. It simply had not mattered.
Roughly six months in, Eames was up to her forehead with his crap.
If she could have reached up, grabbed him by the ear, and dragged his pontificating ass into the conference room to have it out, she would have.
But she was a professional. And so they must talk...
"I am not here to be your fucking Mr. Watson, Sherlock!" she yelled at him.
Well, most of the time she was a professional.
"No, that would involve an appreciation for the creative mind, Detective," he shot back.
She glared at him, took a deep breath, and paced away.
Composing herself then she turned back.
Either find a way or make one, Alexandra, she heard Dad in her head.
"Look, Goren..."
"Oh, give it up, Eames! You want to get reassigned? You want to go the way of my last three partners? Be my guest!" he shouted, throwing out his arm in a dramatic gesture of farewell.
She stared at him a moment. Then, becoming thoughtful, cocked her head and stared harder.
He looked back for as long as he could.
Her penetration was unsettling.
She took a deep breath.
"When I said that a shark might have killed her, I was joking, Mr. Genius," she told him.
He expelled a breath of his own and rubbed a hand along the back of his neck before looking at her again.
"I know," he answered, meeting her gaze again.
She nodded and remained thoughtful another moment before responding.
And then put her hands on her hips and leveled a look at him.
"Here's how it's gonna be, Big Man," she told him: "You. Will. Learn. To. Appreciate. My. Droll. Humor."
He boggled a moment at this. What the fuck?
"Excuse me?" he checked.
"It's actually one of my best qualities," she shrugged mildly.
"What?"
"You heard me," she told him, then got serious again, "I don't mind being treated like one of the guys, Goren. Not at all. I've earned my place here. I am a hundred and five pounds of Right To Be Here, buddy. Same as you, smaller package."
He took in her taut figure and uplifted chin. He'd seen her marksmanship medal. Knew her rep., even if he hadn't bothered reading her file.
"I don't doubt that..." he told her sincerely.
"Good," she replied. "So stop with this Schizo bouncing from Macho Cocky to Sactimonious in five seconds flat bullshit, because I'm not going anywhere. I am not the enemy. I am not here to be sneaked away from so you can follow your own leads. I am your partner. And I'm staying put."
His eyes had widened at the 'Schizo' reference.
"Go on," was all he said.
"So we work this out here and now," she continued. "I've got a lot to learn from you, Goren, I am smart enough to see that. I haven't had much profiling experience. But I do have a whole perspective you don't consider, and you're missing out on something good with that."
He appraised her quietly.
It had been a long time since he'd tried to hash anything out with someone. Not over anything important anyway. And his work was it for him; intellectual stimulation, consistency, and validation. He'd pretty much decided to do without everything else.
Usually in the hashing out of things, or so his experience had been, the other party eventually gave up. And he'd known how to help that giving up along when need be. There are plenty of tricks for hurrying people away, if that's what you want to do.
What he didn't know how to do was facilitate the hanging around.
He tried to remember then the last time he'd in fact wanted someone to hang around.
He looked at her more closely. Those deep, alert eyes boring right back.
And sighed ruefully.
She'd have to be beautiful, of course.
"You... you'd have to be less by the book... more... flexible... I mean, I'm not a rogue, Eames, whatever they've been saying, but I need... room."
"I can do that," she told him simply.
He blinked at this act of reason.
"You can?" he was dubious.
"Sure," she quirked an effortless brow, "I'll use my black magic. Witches do that."
Damn, he thought.
She leaned in to him then.
"They've even been known, occasionally, to buy their partners a beer, Goren."
They stared one another down for a last moment then. Just for good measure.
Until, at last, he nodded and she stood up a little straighter in triumph, and they both breathed in relief.
Then he opened the door for her.
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It was getting slightly easier each day to raise her arms high enough to wash her hair in the shower. It still hurt like a sonofabitch, but the pain no longer made her see stars.
She turned then to let the warm water stream down the back of her head.
It was something that Bobby had asked her to come with him to Carmel Ridge this morning. Something inexplicable.
She'd done the yeoman's tour of Schizophrenia online once. Knew a bit about it now. Had felt she should after first learning about his mother.
For instance, she knew that many people have very mild non-clinical forms of it. Mostly men.
It would manifest itself in the way a man would go about his life. He was one person at work. And another at home. Two worlds, two approaches to life. Fully functional in both. It was reassuring to such men to have this sort of order in their lives. This distinction.
The problems came about when these worlds overlapped. When wifey showed up at the office, by way of example. The negotiation of the clash between who he was at home and who he was at the office might well raise blood pressure and cause stress in the extreme.
She'd pegged Bobby in this category.
And Eames was no lightweight in the sensitivity department. She didn't like anyone to know this about her, but it was true. She was well aware that through their years together, she'd become Bobby's True North. His Old Reliable. In his daily working life, that is. Which, admittedly, was most of their waking hours.
But the dark underbelly which was Bobby's other life had always been off limits to her. She'd met the odd friend of his now and then, but knew with absolute certainty that on those occasions when he'd come to work unshaven, baggy-eyed, and well, haunted looking, for lack of a better word, she must keep her questions to herself.
And she had.
She'd never let Bobby down in this, or in anything else for that matter. This was a point of pride with her.
So this Carmel Ridge thing. This overlapping of worlds was causing quite a blip on her Bobby radar.
"It's a nice drive and you haven't been out in days," he'd shrugged when she pressed him on it.
So she let it be.
She got slowly out of the shower then and grimaced as she began to towel off. She'd caught a look at herself in the mirror. The bruises blooming along her ribcage had turned a shade of daffodil yellowish-green.
Ugh.
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He'd stopped at D'Agostino's early to pick up one of those flat basket trays of dried fruit from California. Her eyes always lit up when he brought one. The dates, apricots and figs spread out prettily delighted her. And it had been awhile since he'd thought to get her one.
He'd also bought Alex a steaming cup of Mexican chocolate.
A selfish prick is what he is.
He knows it. He has no business dragging her with him all the way out to the dressed-up Loony Bin that has been his mother's home for over two decades.
And he's not even sure why he asked her to come.
He's decided that for once he's not going to analyze.
It's one of those Winter mornings that is so clear, bright, and blue, even in the city, that one has to wear sunglasses. The roads are open and in good condition (he'd checked before leaving) and he just wants to drive.
Usually he spends these drives going over the current case in his mind.
After he'd left Eames' apartment the evening before, he'd dropped by the public library. Belva, one of the night librarians, was a pal of his and had done some under-the-table noodling on the computer for him.
Christine Larkins had been avidly devouring her father's political articles, treatises, and books. She'd cross-referenced his theories and had read counter theories. She'd done a helluva lot of seat time...
He'd only thought Alex could do with an outing. Some sunshine, some time out of the city. That's all.
...To say that Zel Larkins had been critical of capitalism, colonialism, and all US involvement in the Middle East was an understatement. This, of course, was not remarkable. Lots of intellectuals felt similarly. But to openly advocate violent revolt as opposed to civil disobedience, or open elections, was unusual for someone of his background...
His mother had been doing so well for the past three months. She always liked company, it never failed to perk her up. So there it was. A simple meeting of convenience--- Alex needing an outing and Mom liking company.
... But what had prompted Larkins' sudden need to read her father's work? And how had it contributed to her murder? For he felt with that familiar prickling sensation along the back of his neck that they were connected...
Why was he jeopardizing things? Why was he playing with what had been good and consistent and right in his life for four years? What kind of self destructive ass tries to turn the only stability he has ever known outside of the Army into... whatever it was he was trying to turn it into? What was he trying to turn it into? He remembered her eyes then, that night in the diner...
'I don't see why things have to be as they've always have been, Bobby.'
Well, he did. He sure as hell did.
...Christine Larkins had made deliberate changes in her life. Her perfect life of fame and art was all that most people coveted. Yet she had deliberately opened Pandora's Box. And then she'd been murdered. Alex would call that the ironic moral of the story. He only thought it the way of life. But what were the reasons behind it all? It was so much easier to figure these out for other people...
He sighed then as he turned onto Eames' street.
She was standing still on the front steps of her building in the bright winter morning in her long navy coat, her chin tilted up to the sun, a small smile playing over her lips. He imagined that her eyes might be closed too but couldn't be sure because of the sunglasses she wore. In her gloved hands before her she clasped a small potted violet, edged in lacy paper.
And he felt a kind of peace at the sight...
He was a selfish prick.
He double parked before the building and hopped out to come around and open the door for her. Her lips pursed in amusement at this but she said nothing.
Once in and on their way, he stole a glance at her.
"You didn't need to wait outside," he told her.
She shrugged, "The sun was so nice this morning and I wanted to walk over to Isador's for the flowers."
He nodded.
"How are you feeling?"
"A little better."
"Good."
He turned his eyes to the light Sunday morning traffic out of the city, then. And they were silent.
Until her phone rang.
"Eames. Oh hey, Carmen."
He glanced over in interest.
"...No. No problem. I'm glad you called. What have you got?
...Really? Interesting." She pulled her notebook out of her purse to jot a few words.
"...Carmen, I really appreciate this. Yeah. Goren and I owe you..."
She turned her eyes merrily to Bobby next to her then.
"...I don't know. That you'd have to ask him. Don't go getting yourself into a harassment situation, though, honey. And the word on the street is that he is one faithless hound...
...No, he can't get to the phone right now, sorry...
...Could you email that stuff to me? Okay, thanks again, Carmen."
She clicked off the cell.
"We got a pop on the missing doorman. His alias turned up in one of the international data bases at the FBI. And, get this, he's been linked to a terrorist cell."
Goren raised his brows, "Really?"
"Carmen's trying to find a 'last known' for him right now but she's got a picture. Not a great one, it's from a surveillance camera. She's going to email everything she can get over to me this evening at the latest. So, what do you think?"
"I'm not sure..."
"She also wants to know if you'll meet her for a drink sometime."
Bobby groaned.
She laughed.
"You wouldn't have to stoop over to hear her talk."
He rolled his eyes.
"What? Not your type?"
He looked sideways at her with meaning, "No."
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They talked the case as they rode. Alex feeling life vibrate through her again as she and Bobby worked through variables in the old way.
And the sun felt warm and good. The hot chocolate, heavenly.
And she actually got Bobby to laugh once or twice which was always a satisfying accomplishment.
All too soon they were pulling up the sweeping drive at Carmel Ridge.
She didn't know what she'd expected. It was beautiful. Stately and colonial. The grounds extensive.
Once they were in the lobby, Bobby led her to a desk for them to sign in.
"Bobby, you're late this morning!" called out a bubbly redhead as they approached.
"Morning, Julie," he said neutrally.
Alex looked over at him at this. Then saw with no little interest as the receptionist's expression immediately narrowed at the sight of her.
"Julie, this is Alex Eames," he introduced her as he signed them in.
"Hello," smiled Alex.
"Bobby's never brought a guest with him before," was the prim reply.
"See you later, Julie," called Bobby as he took her elbow and guided her through a nearby set of doors.
They proceeded down a long windowed hall then in silence.
Alex was confused. It was easy to see that Bobby had been flirting in that meaningless way he had with Julie for sometime now. He'd never hesitated to do this in her presence before. In fact, it had proven a very useful method of getting information. Bobby's effortless charm was legendary. And he could pour it on thick. And turn it off just as quickly. Coldly almost, she'd noticed in the past.
So, what was different about today? Why'd he turn the spoutoff on Julie?
She stole a glance at him as they walked, but his face was shuttered.
Finally, he stopped before a door. The nameplate read 'Margaret Goren'.
He turned and looked down at her, clearly in some distress.
"Eames, she's been doing so well for the past few months..."
She placed her hand on his arm then. And they both looked down at it laying there. This being a singular and intimate touch between them.
He looked up then and met her eyes.
Did he look nervous?
"Bobby, it'll be fine. It's me here."
"I know. That's just it," he told her softly before knocking lightly and reaching to turn the knob.