It had been a pissing contest really.
It's a modern age, he'd reflected. No reason why and a man and woman couldn't have one. Figuratively, anyway. Unfortunately, there'd been the childish name calling too (not a proud moment for either.) But ultimately it had been a test of nerves, of trust, and, in its way, of sex-role boundaries.
And when it came down to it, he had no problem with strong women and she had no problem with unorthodoxy. He'd only needed room. She, communication. Both, respect. And trust.
So, a man-woman story as old as time--- for a modern age.
They'd had their beer after that first hashing out of the way it was going to be, and, for once, he thought maybe he was in a partnership that might work. They'd only been together for six months, so only time would tell. But the outlook was better than it had ever been for him before.
The morning after the fight he came in early to read her file.
Spotless record, a widow—went back to work a week later. Yep, that was Eames. A university degree, commendations, and the disgraced cop for a dad. Also, notably, the particular degradation a woman who wanted to rise through the ranks in this job must face: A tour in vice. But all these he'd heard rumblings of before.
What he needed to do was read between the lines. Easy enough. Or so he thought then.
For Alexandra Elizabeth Eames, it was clear. Her watch word, her life's tether, began and ended with honor.
To be an exemplary police woman to compensate for her fallen father. To carry on for a husband lost in the line of duty. To stand for all the women in line behind her who took shit daily from the men they worked with.
Perfectly clear.
Even nearly four years later, after they'd meshed so well for so long, the surrogacy for her sister had amounted to the same thing. Honor. To do the best she could by those she loved.
Her perfect solidarity with him meant this as well, he knew. The choices he'd made that she did not fully agree with never prevented her from standing by his side, even to her own detriment. She'd slap Carver's ears back in Goren's defense, then once Carver left the room, turn around and slap his back too.
Only, in private.
Her loyalty to him was not a question. And therefore neither was his to her.
Honor.
Not so easy to read between the lines now though. Apparently they'd been redrawn a bit when he hadn't been paying attention.
In the month or so since the baby's birth, he knew something had changed within her. He wasn't sure what. Perhaps it had been building quietly for some time before that, but the anxiety of adjusting to her replacement had distracted him.
And her subsequent surprising request for greater intimacy between them, furthered along by the car accident hadn't given him any greater insight into what had been the nature of that change.
He did wonder though what she had done with the loyalty she undoubtedly held for the baby she'd birthed.
A mother's heart walled up in an aunt.
Giving up a baby for any thirty-nine year old woman must be difficult, he reasoned. She had no husband. Hadn't dated in nearly a year. 'Men don't hit on pregnant women, oddly enough,' she'd cracked once.
It would be a painful wrench for any woman. For Alex, he could only imagine.
Part of being honorable is about not letting on though.
Honor was an archaic concept, he reflected then, which made him wonder about his own.
He'd seen a bit of it in the Army, where such old notions die hard. And certainly he went to Herculean lengths to nail the guilty, but he held few illusions about this. It was far too much about the game for him. Not out of any sense of fun, but out of challenge, and the steely need to find answers. He wasn't without compassion. But those around him often mistook his finely honed empathy for that compassion.
They weren't the same thing at all.
No, he well knew that Eames had the purer heart. His neurons might fire faster, but her intent was the more noble.
He took another deep gulp of the coffee he'd bought on the way over, and shifted slightly on the bench where he'd been waiting for this last half hour.
At least it was indoors, he reasoned. He'd certainly waited around in far less hospitable settings than a fine marble lobbies featuring original art.
Shendrick wouldn't be in for ten or fifteen minutes, most likely. But he hadn't wanted to be in the office when Eames came in that morning.
Yeah, he's being a dick.
But he still needed... well, distance. Those damn eyes of her saw too much.
Boundaries clearly needed to be reestablished. Ideally this would be accomplished in a subtle non-confrontational way.
With Eames though, he doubted it.
He'd tried to accommodate her, he had. She was the one who'd wanted them to be closer. So he had tried, for her. That was all. It just hadn't worked. No fault to be lain anywhere. Just simple failure on this particular front.
Right?
He closed his eyes for a moment then. He was tired.
Unbidden images and scents washed over him. And warmed him through then. Her smooth white body in his dream. The peaceful feeling of seeing her standing safe in the sun. The horror of her still, bloodied body in the ambulance. The scent of her sheets, the chocolate on her breath...
Her books. That she had them.
He opened his eyes deliberately and stood up.
Forget it, Goren. Stop. Go no further.
He could only imagine the heaviness of her heart at his mother's ranting. Or what was said to her in his few moments away from them.
And there's your ice-cold shower, man: Pity.
So, the new mantra: Your partnership with this woman is remarkable. It must be preserved at all cost. The work is the thing.
He looked up as movement through the window caught his eye then.
The weather was getting gray out again, he registered in the back of his mind.
A uniformed attendant opened the lobby door, and with the icy winter wind, in came Marjorie Shendrick.
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He assessed her as they rode the elevator together.
Early sixties, elegantly styled white hair, a cashmere coat (not fur), a Chanel bag. Simple makeup. Tall-ish, and remarkably unbent for her age. Still worked out, no doubt.
From research Eames had pulled off the computer, he knew her to be preeminent among the
wealthy and well-intentioned in the city. She was on several important philanthropic committees. Including the prestigious Opera Gala, which he assumed was how Christine Larkins came to know her.
She was active in her liberal tony synagogue, and the Harvard alums. And did pro-bono work through the Mitzvah Society. Volunteered countless counseling hours to the bereaved after 9/11.
And was purportedly a fine psychiatrist as well.
Through his own contacts, he knew that her financials were impeccable. Her servants and secretary fiercely loyal, and it was rumored that, as she was childless, The Met was counting on a very generous bequest when she departed the earthly world.
"May I get you some fresh coffee, Detective Goren?" she asked as they stepped into her inner office.
"No, thank you," he replied.
She poured herself a cup, as he looked about her finely furnished office. Cool chrome and dark leather predominated. Some very good contemporary prints. The requisite library. Some crystal pieces. A box of tissues on a low table. He wondered if Christine Larkins had shed tears here.
He waited then for her to walk around her desk and sit down before seating himself.
"So, you want to talk about Christine Larkins?" she asked directly, meeting his gaze.
"Yes."
She looked away and out the window to the sweeping Manhattan vista.
"It was terrible what happened. Such a talented young woman. And quite beautiful."
He leaned forward a bit.
"I'd like to ask you..."
Her eyes snapped back to him and her impossibly straight back possibly straightened further.
"I'm afraid you've wasted your time, Detective, as I tried to tell your partner over the phone..."
"I know. Patient Confidentiality."
She smiled elegantly and nodded her head.
"I'm sorry. But that is iron clad. Even in death."
"I understand," he began, and offered up one of his own smiles, "And I admire that. In fact, I admire a great deal of the work you've done, Dr. Shendrick."
She raised her brows at that and took a sip of her coffee.
"What do you know of my work, Detective?"
"I know that the Mitzvah Society saw fit to name you Volunteer of Year last year. That's quite a commendation. I know that you've written several articles on the psychological impact of large scale devastating events."
She smiled again, but would not be mis-directed.
"I'm sure you understand my need to protect my patient's privacy, Detective."
"I do," he nodded.
She appraised him briefly before continuing.
"I can assure you that there is nothing I learned in my time with Christine which could explain her murder."
"Really? How do you know?" he asked.
She looked somewhat surprised by this.
"Excuse me?"
"It's just that you seem so certain. There may have been many indicators in what Miss Larkins would say in privacy to her doctor that could be of a great deal of help in solving her murder. Things that might not be obvious to someone unused to criminal activity."
"Such as?" she seemed truly curious.
He noted that she had by-passed the offense in his statement and gone straight for the new information. The mark of the scholar. Knowledge before ego. This was a possible way in.
"Well, as you know, behavior can tell us all sorts of things. I..." he deliberately prevaricated and cast his eyes downward, managing to blush slightly, "I sort of consider myself... an amateur psychologist. Not on your scale, of course! But I've read lots of books. It helps me solve cases."
He watched her relax slightly.
She was amused. Good.
"Really? Well, that is admirable detective. But I should perhaps throw out that old caveat—about a little knowledge..."
"Being a dangerous thing?" he finished for her with a smile.
"Well, frankly, yes," she replied and sipped her coffee again.
"You see I carefully go through the victim's life, her home, her books, her clothes. I try to get into her head..." he said with enthusiasm.
"And this works for you?"
"Oh?" he asked with a slightly forlorn note, "You don't think it could?"
"I find it highly unlikely," she allowed.
"Yeah, I can see why you'd be doubtful. You having gone to Harvard and all."
She smiled indulgently, "Are these the sorts of techniques you use on 'perps', as I believe you call them?"
He grinned, "Ah, you caught me," he waved a finger at her, "I knew you would!"
She smiled back.
"As entertaining as this is, Detective..."
"How about I share some of my ideas with you, Doctor? You don't have to confirm or deny anything. I have developed some thoughts about Miss Larkins, that I'd..."
"Detective..." she was shaking her head.
"How about this: I just... talk. Just bounce some ideas out there. You don't have to say anything. If I am off base, just remark on the weather. The weather, that's all. And this will be off the record, Dr. Shendrick. Completely for my own background information..." he smiled his best boyish smile.
She frowned.
"It's highly unorthodox..."
"Ah, come on doctor, give me a chance," he openly wheedled. "This way you preserve your integrity and maybe really help out at the same. I know that helping out is one of your prime motivators."
She studied his pleading look and acquiesced.
"The weather?"
"Only if I'm off track."
She picked up her mug and leaned back into her chair, preparing to listen.
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Alex stepped out of interrogation and into observation. Damn, damn, damn... she intoned with the three steps it took to get from one door to the other.
"He's a stone. And lawyered up. There's nothing you can do," comforted Deakins as she met him before the one-way glass.
"This guy..." she shook her head and looked again at Kol Arano he leaned in to listen to his lawyer, "There's more than meets the eye.
"The fact that he got that guy here in less than an hour speaks volumes."
Eames eyed the Armani-suited lawyer, "Yeah, but not the story."
"Well, let them stew for awhile. We've got him on assaulting an officer."
She nodded wearily and sighed.
"Alex, you okay?" he asked.
"Fine," she snapped. "I'm going to go do a little more research."
She turned on her heel, her mind already with her laptop.
Deakins watched thoughtfully as she went, then headed to his own office.
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"Christine Larkins was depressed," he began...
"...But functioning. In all likelihood this was precipitated by her mother's death. She found herself alone in the world. And though she hadn't lived near her mother for sometime, she had been carefully leading the life her parents had set out for her. The promising career, the luxury, the touring. During her autumn tour through Europe and Middle East, she began to think about her father. I'm not sure why. Perhaps it was being in part of the world that he felt passionate about. Perhaps it was a natural progression from her mother's death.
Something... happened to her during this tour. Whatever it was deepened her sorrow, made her rethink her life's plan----something she'd never considered in a critical way before. She got her navel pierced. She came home and gave away her clothes, and her money. Though we're not exactly sure where that went. She also went to the library and ferociously studied her father's writings."
He paused here, allowing the silence to fill with an unspoken question.
Dr. Shendrick took a deep, thoughtful drink of her coffee.
Goren nodded and went on.
"She may even have been considering suicide. She'd re-written her will and, from what we can tell, planned to give all away to the various charities her mother supported in Cairo. Mostly for indigent children.
Based on all this, my supposition is that she met someone, or simply heard... possibly extremist views about the nature of US involvement in the Middle East while she was abroad. Which only contributed to her depression and may have, in some way that we've yet to pin down, contributed to her death... Studying her father's work was also an outgrowth of this."
He waited then. Hoping that further information would be forthcoming. But Dr. Shendrick's face was impassive.
"I have appointments waiting, Detective Goren," she told him as she arose from her chair and extended her well-manicured hand, "Good luck with your case."
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"This is Goren," he answered his ringing cell as he walked out of the marble lobby.
"What's your status, Bobby?"
"On my way back in now, Captain."
"Did the renowned Dr. Shendrick offer anything new?"
"Not exactly, but we're on the right track with the victim's profile."
"Well, that's something, anyway. Eames collared Arano this morning."
"What? Really...?"
"Her FBI contact dug up the 'last known' and she got lucky. He's got a pretty expensive suit in there with him now."
He played the ramifications of that over in his mind.
"How ...?"
He could hear the smile in Deakins' voice, "Alex End Ran you, Bobby. She grabbed a couple of uniforms and nailed the guy."
"You said he's still there? What are you holding him on?"
Deakins hesitated slightly, "Assaulting an officer..."
"Assaulting..." his breath hitched.
"She's fine, Bobby."
"Yeah, I'm sure that's what she told you."
He snapped the cell shut and stepped off the curb then to flag a cab.
Snarky Little Witch.
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She'd printed out their pictures.
Known accomplices of Arano, or whatever the hell his name was, and the man himself. There seemed to be no clue as to what his original name might have been.
Three young men with no current addresses, yet were known to have some sort of tenuous link to a terrorist cell in Amsterdam. The connections, the real names, the details were all maddeningly vague. Carmen's clearance not sufficient to get her the full picture.
They'd have to put a call into the FBI through official challenges. Which is just swell.
She stared at their faces spread out before her. And sighed again, then winced immediately as her ribs protested the assault of her stretching lungs.
Fuck.
Tears burnt at the corners of her eyes as she placed her hand against her side
Taking a surreptitious look over her shoulder, she reached into her side desk drawer for the bottle of ibuprofen.
She held it down low in her lap with her right hand, and releasing her ribs with her left, tried to work the childproof cap.
The effort of this caused her to gasp.
At last she got the lid off and turning the bottle out onto the table let out a, 'God dammit' when nothing tumbled out.
"There's more in the break room," she heard.
She didn't bother to meet his eyes—Buzz off, Dancing Bear—but got up gingerly and followed the scent of burnt coffee to the break room.
He was right behind her.
She opened the cabinet above the sink and closed her eyes briefly in frustration.
"Well, Murphy's laughing at me today," she said aloud.
She made one futile and pain-ridden attempt to reach the bottle on the top shelf, but stopped when she felt his hand rest on her lower back. She lowered her arm as his reached past and grabbed the bottle.
She briefly longed to lean back in to the warm hand spread across her pelvis. To just feel its warmth, to take comfort in the contact.
But stepped away instead.
She held out her hand for the bottle, "Thanks," she said, meeting his eye.
He opened the bottle for her and shook out two tablets into her palm, then turned to fill a paper cup of water.
He watched through hooded eyes as she swallowed them down, not failing to notice the slight flinch the effort caused.
She looked back up at him crankily, "What!"
He looked about to ensure their privacy.
"I want you to show me your ribs, Eames," he stated softly.
"Excuse me, but I don' think so," she told him back.
He leaned over her pointedly.
"You will, or I'm going in to tell Deakins just how hurt you are. You'll be back home with your books before you can say Edna Saint Vincent Millay."
"Go to hell."
"Not until I see your ribs."
She looked at him a moment, then smiled softly.
"You're not going to tell Deakins."
"Try me."
"You're not going to tell Deakins because I have stood by you, Goren, without fail. I've held my tongue when you defended a lobotomizer. I've run interference so you can sniff dead bodies in peace. I've backed up your crazy ass for four years now. You are not telling Deakins a thing, without my permission. And you know it."
She finished this last with a sort of triumph in her voice.
He looked down at her, knowing she was right, and took a deep breath. He was close enough to her that the hint of citrus perfume she always wore penetrated him.
"Go back to licking your own wounds, Goren," she snapped.
She turned to move away, but he took her upper right arm in one hand, and grabbed the first aid kit from off a nearby shelf with the other.
There was no breaking the grip he had on her. Not without serious self-injury and very public scuffling anyway.
"Let me go, Bobby," she growled through clenched teeth.
But he was walking her to the small room behind the kitchen.
Once within, he turned and locked the door behind him.
Turning back to an indignant Alex, he placed the first aid kit on the table next to her.
"Take off your sweater," he told her as he opened up the kit.
"What?" she almost laughed. "I don't think so."
He looked at her.
"Get up on this table and take off your sweater, Eames. Or I will go to Deakins. To hell with my crazy ass."
"I am not..."
His eyes softened.
"I need to see how badly you're hurt and then you can finish the day. If you promise to go in for an x-ray tonight, that is."
"I don't see how..."
"Those are the terms, Eames," he told her.
She looked at him, saw his resolve, and climbed up on the table, "Arrogant side-of-beef," she groused.
He didn't let himself smile.
He kept his eyes on the tape and Aspercreme as he sensed her movements next to him. She was struggling a bit.
"Bobby..."
He looked up at the slight tremor in her voice.
"What is it?" he asked gently.
"I uh..." she looked away ruefully. "I can't get my sweater off. The pain...lifting my arm is..."
He nodded and set the medical supplies down.
He reached for the sleeve of her royal blue cashmere and helped her slip her right arm out. Then gently eased its high neck over her head, before, finally, bringing the last sleeve down over her left arm.
He turned away then, shook out the sweater, noting how small it seemed, before laying it over a nearby chair.
He turned back to look at her. Her chin was up and her eyes met his. The trust between them remained unbroken, he was relieved to see.
She was waiting for him he realized then.
His eyes moved down the throat of his fantasies, past the creamy breasts clad in navy lace, and to her left side.
"Oh, Alex..." he whispered with such tenderness then that gooseflesh rose over her exposed skin.
She swallowed. "That bad?" she asked.
The bruising had spread, far exceeding where she'd taped over that morning. And where there should be lighter and more yellow marks in the week since the accident, there were now black and angry deep bruises again.
"Please let me take you to the hospital."
"No, not yet."
He nodded and sighed, then pulled off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves
He began then to peel away the curling tape off her skin.
She hissed through her teeth at his ministrations.
"We still need talk to Drew. He's on the way in now. The car rental place faxed over his mileage..."
"Let me guess, a middle of the night scenic drive?"
She let out a shaky laugh, "Looks like it."
They were silent then, she gasping as he continued to slowly peel away the tape.
By the time her side was bare, she was feeling slightly dizzy from the exertion.
He looked up at her closed eyes in concern.
"I'm sorry, Alex. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," she assured him.
"I'm going to wash my hands and put some cream on it, then tape it up again."
She only nodded, her face pale, her eyes still closed.
He warmed his hands under the water, and the cream between his fingers before beginning the application process.
At the first touch of his fingertips at her side, she leaned her forehead forward to rest on his shoulder and moaned softly.
He lightly slid the topical pain medicine over her delicate skin. Circling and skating his fingers. After a moment, he felt her body begin to relax.
"Bobby... yesterday..."
"Shhh," he told her as he stroked her skin.
"But, I don't want you to think..."
God she was tired.
"I don't," he told her softly.
She sighed and nodded slightly.
Another moment of his fingers against her, the ibuprofen and cream beginning to take effect...
"I can't remember the last time a man touched me..." she mumbled into his shoulder then.
"Yeah, well, they don't know what they're missing," he replied with a small smile.
"Black and blue bruises?"
"Among other things."