Within the hour the CSU team was swarming through Eames' apartment like bees in a beehive, buzzing about in a kind of organized panic. Some of the tenants who were still in the building had wandered into the hall to see what all the commotion was, and most were surprised that the cops were searching a cop's place. Goren was speaking to Portis, hoping the man had noticed something other than his partner's physique.
"Nah, she's a good tenant. Yeah, she can be bossy sometimes, but usually she don't bother nobody," said Portis.
Goren pretended to be jotting down the man's responses, but in reality he was doodling on his pad, his mind acting sluggish without his partner's smart asides to help jump start his brain. Portis seemed to have little to say about the entire ordeal, but Goren knew he had to make the man think he was a big help in their—no, his—investigation.
"Did she complain about someone bothering her, express anything that seemed suspicious?" asked the detective.
Portis jiggled his keys in his stubby fingers. "Not to me. Then again, she never told me somethin' unless it was about the buildin'." Portis seemed almost shocked, with his red skin looking very pale.
"Sir?" inquired Goren. "Are you all right?"
"Nah. This buildin's gonna be the stock of the town…" Portis wandered away, headed for the stairs.
Goren spun around to look into Eames' apartment, feeling very disoriented without her at his side. He approached a lead CSU, Max Tyler, and grabbed his attention with two taps in the shoulder. The CSU turned, his grim features and hollowed blue eyes not lifting the detective's spirits.
"Anything?" asked Goren.
Tyler shook his head. "Not yet. But if there's anything, anything, we'll find it."
The CSU returned to supervising the crime scene, something Goren was having a difficult time calling his partner's apartment. The detective proceeded to interview some of the other tenants, all of which were equally as upset about the police in their building as they were upset that one of their neighbors had gone missing right under their noses. Most had nothing to offer, with a few giving inconclusive details about how Eames had faked it. By then Goren's pad was covered in black doodles, but he did have a couple of notes written down amongst the swirls and squares.
Who caught the detective's attention rather quickly was a young boy who was staring at the crime tape in disbelief. He was elementary school age, with shaggy blonde hair and bright green eyes. He was dressed in his night clothes, those consisting of black pants and a dark green shirt. Goren approached the child, crouching down and offering the child his hand.
"Hey there," he said. The boy shook the detective's hand. "And what's your name?"
"Robby, Robby Lee Percival."
"Robby, huh?" said Goren. "I'm Detective Goren. Listen, can I ask you some questions?"
The boy's eyes were focused on the yellow tape around Eames' apartment. "What happened to Ms. Eames?" His tone was a direct representation of how Goren felt: lost.
"Well, Robby, that's what I'm trying to find out. Say, why aren't you in school?"
Robby's eyes turned to Goren. "I have a fever," he said. He took the detective's hand and rested it on his forehead. It was hot to the touch.
"I'm sorry, Robby. I hope you feel better," replied Goren.
"Mommy called a doctor to come see me," explained the child. "She's a teacher at NYU. Dr. Littman came and saw me this morning."
Two of the jammed gears in Goren's mind began to warm up as the child spoke. That name was familiar for some reason, but he just could not recall why. He knew that if Eames was there she would have reminded him in an instant.
"He had left his stealthy-scope in the den, and I went to give it to him," continued Robby. "He was in Ms. Eames' room. He said she was sick and needed his help."
"Really?" questioned Goren. He tore off his doodle page and stuffed it in his pocket, jotting down notes with his left hand.
"Yessir. He said she wasn't feeling good, and he thanked me for giving him his stealthy-scope."
Goren looked up at the boy. "A stethoscope?"
"Yessir, a stealthy-scope."
"Could you describe what Dr. Littman looks like, Robby?" asked Goren.
"He's tall, brown hair, dark eyes…" said the boy. "He's got a scar of his forehead, in between his eyes sorta."
Goren wrote very quickly, his pen moving faster than it had ever done. "Thanks. Hey, do you think you could help someone make a sketch? It would help us find Ms. Eames."
Robby nodded, and the detectives stood up. The youth did not rise higher than his waist, and Goren felt a tug on his coat. Looking down, he saw the boy was clinging to his coat, his bright eyes wide.
"Will you find her? She's my favorite neighbor. She makes me cookies sometimes," said Robby. Goren patted the child's head softly.
"I'll find her, kid." Goren meant it, not just for the boy, but for himself.
---
Bradley Moss, Dillon Rush, Seth Herbert, and Ira Stover were four men who shared the same agenda: get that money. Someone had contacted them a few months ago, ordering a hit on a man with the name Goren. They were told that he was a cop, and the four men despised cops. They were also told that there would be a huge reward for catching him and turning him over. They were given specific instructions, ones they were to follow to the letter, and they did.
Moss was a buff guy, six-feet, with thick short black hair and a soul patch on his chin. With broad shoulders and thick arms, he was half the muscle of the team, with the other three forming the other half. His face was round, his nose square, and he had smooth cheeks but a wrinkled brow. His most unforgettable feature was his eyes, one blue and the other green, and the blue one having a scar from a childhood accident involving barded wire.
Rush was the sole African-American, taller than Moss but not by much, and he had fast reflexes. He could pull a gun from his belt and shot someone from one-hundred-yards out and nail them between the eyes with little effort. He had his dark hair in dreadlocks that went past his shoulders, and with a long horse-like face and small beady eyes he was intimidating to most. He had a tattoo of a white dragon curling around a flaming sword on his left arm, and was the youngest at twenty-nine.
Herbert was the smallest, rising no higher than five-foot-six, but was the fastest runner of the group. The oldest at forty, he could outrun and outfox almost every single cop in the New York area, the only reason he had been able to keep up his cocaine habit for over thirty years. His blond hair was balding, his brown eyes sharp and very keen to detail, and even with the smallest frame he could overpower even the toughest cops.
Stover finished the troupe as being the only continuous connection to the man, who only went by Mike. Stover was around six-feet, with brown hair and dark, deep-set eyes and bushy eyebrows. His square face and prominent chin gave him an authoritarian look, one that helped him control the members of his party.
The idea was to strip this Goren fellow of his sanity. According to Mike this guy was one on the edge. Mike told them who they were to blackmail in order to begin the operation, and they had done so. Once their use for their fifth and reluctant member was over, they took him out to the Hudson and shot him execution style, throwing his body into the icy waters and tossing the gun they had used, just like Mike had said. Now they were left with what Mike called their "leverage," and the payments the four were to receive began coming in as small sums, no more than ten thousand. With the grand total being way over $100,000 per member, it would take roughly ten shipments, but Mike was cautious. He did not want to leave a money trail.
As the "leverage" was lying quietly on the floor of a New York City building, the four men played poker to pass the time away, waiting for Mike to call them again.
---
Goren arrived back and One Police Plaza after noon, his mind moving at half-speed without Eames at his side. It was an empty feeling, the ache in his stomach rising to his chest, and he was more frustrated than anything. He rode in the elevator alone. On the ride up he was constantly pacing in the small space, wondering why Littman would take Eames. As the doors opened with their soft ding a bulb went off in Goren's head: Littman was Eames' current boyfriend. Yet there was no motive up to this point.
The detective was making his way to his desk when he heard Deakins calling him into his office. Goren complied, his eyes falling onto his partner's vacant desk still covered with papers. He entered his captain's office to find Assistant District Attorney Ron Carver and another man in the office. Shutting the door, Goren began to observe this stranger. He was tall, his height only exceeded by his own, with short brown hair and dark hazel eyes. His face was long and heart-shaped, his mouth small with thin lips, a long and sharp nose and his eyes wide and piercing. There was scaring on his face from high school acne, and he was a rather slender and small-framed character.
"Sir?" asked Goren. Deakins was leaning against his desk, arms folded across his chest and his face in a grimace set.
"Goren, I'd like you to meet Special Agent Joseph M. Livingston. He's with the Missing Persons Unit at the FBI."
Goren was not quite sure he understood his captain. "Sir, you can't take this away—"
"It's not his call, detective," said Carver in his cool voice.
"Sir!" Goren spun on his heels and stared at the prosecutor.
"Goren," warned Deakins. Goren's look of disbelief turned to his captain. "I'm not taking it away from you. I'm just complying with what IAB said."
"Sir, complying! This—this is Eames we're talking about!"
"I know. Which is why Special Agent Livingston is here to help you. IAB wants the FBI on this, but I want you on it. Carver helped bring it to a compromise."
Goren's eyes fell back onto the agent, the hard glare in his eyes not faltering the man. He was angered that the FBI had become involved. It was a New York cop, no, it was his partner, his friend, who was in trouble, and he was going to nail the bastards who took her, however many, to the wall. The agent took a step forward, his moves non-threatening.
"Detective, I'm not here to strip you of this. I'm here to help you," he said. Goren opened his mouth, prepared to snap at the man, but Deakins spoke quickly.
"Could I have a word with my detective, sirs?"
Livingston faced Deakins. "Certainly." He walked past Goren and opened the office door, closing the door behind Carver as they exited. Goren revolved back to his captain.
"Are you serious!" retorted Goren. It was not a question.
Deakins stood off his desk and walked to his detectives, his arms falling to his sides. "IAB wanted the FBI to take this, but I refused. I know this is important to you, and I know you can find her long before those damn agents from Washington can. I'm just trying to make it seem that IAB is in control."
"Yes, sir." Goren nodded, understanding. Deakins had a lot of pressure from IAB, as well as political leaders and people with large fat checkbooks. Having one of Major Case's own go missing, abducted from their home, was not a pleasant thought. Once the case broke out, people would want results, and for most simple-minded New Yorkers, the FBI equaled results.
"Loyalty knows no politics, Goren. Now go," ordered Deakins.
Goren said nothing as he left his captain's office, closing the door quietly behind him. It had hard to imagine that merely a few hours ago he had been curious about how Eames' date had gone only now to understand that it must have gone terribly. He walked to his desk to find Livingston looking at the pictures on Eames' desk, picking up the one of her nephew. The agent lifted his head and looked at Goren.
"Handsome boy. How old is he?"
"He's two," answered Goren. He sat in his chair and removed his coat. Livingston set the picture calmly on the desk and pulled up her chair, sitting behind her desk. Goren felt an empty pain travel through him as the agent sat and scooted to the desk.
"She must be proud," said Livingston.
"He's her nephew," replied Goren. He pulled his notepad from his pocket, bringing out the folded-up doodle page and tossed them on the table. Livingston raised an eyebrow at the doodles but Goren ignored him and began reviewing his notes.
"I know, I read her file," said Livingston. "From what I've gathered she's a tough cop."
"One of the very best, sir."
Livingston nodded. "What have you gotten so far?"
Even though Goren resented having to debrief the FBI agent on his partner's disappearance, he did so with as much charm as he could muster without sickening himself. He explained about the note, the lock of hair, Robby seeing a man in her apartment. He knew the agent was ready to try and take all the credit, but he did not care. It was Eames, and Goren would do anything to make sure she was all right. It did not matter who received the credit, not anymore.
"So, who reported it?" asked Livingston.
"Hmm?" Goren was only half-way paying attention to the agent, hoping that the icy-shoulder technique he adopted from Eames would take affect. Obviously her tactic did not work for him.
"Who reported her missing? We need to interview them straight away."
Goren turned to face the special agent, one arm on the desk and the other on his leg. "No need. It was me."
"You?" inquired Livingston. Goren clarified his suspicions to the agent with a dark stare, hoping that the agent would suddenly burst into flame and turn into a pile of useless ash, leaving him to find his partner alone. No such thing happened.
"You took it upon yourself to search her apartment, even through you had no reason to, no probable cause—"
"Hey!" barked Goren. "It doesn't matter! All that's important is that we've got a missing person, and I aim to find her, with or without you, sir."
Some passing rookies overheard the loud conversation and jogged away in fright. Most had heard Goren raise his voice before, just not in front of the FBI. They ignored it and continued with their tasks. All knew that Goren would do anything to find his partner, regardless.
What did it matter that Goren had not waited until a family member or a neighbor called in Eames' disappearance two days late? Loyalty knows no politics, as Deakins had said. Goren's first responsibility was to his partner, not to this special agent from the FBI who thought he was going to control this investigation.
Fuck protocol.
"Okay, detective," said Livingston coolly. He picked up Eames' phone and dialed the crime lab. As he rested the phone on his shoulder he began flipping through an open file, licking his thumbs as he turned the pages. Goren watched his movements, something not sitting right with him about this man. His gut was normally right, and at the moment his gut was twisted into a hundred knots.
---
"Show 'em."
"Three fours, boo-ya!"
"Pair of Aces…shit, dude…"
"Full House! Read 'em and weep! Give me th' pot."
"Ah—no, that's mine. Royal flush."
"Ah, fuck ya, man"
Eames heard the voices before she even fully woke up. Her head was throbbing, feeling as if someone had rammed her head into a wall, and she did not want to open her eyes. Forcing her eyelids to part, she scanned the room. It was not her apartment, nor any other place she was familiar with. She was lying on her side on the floor, tape across her mouth and her hands behind her. She felt cool metal on her wrists, and she rolled her eyes: her own handcuffs.
Ironic little twist, huh Levi. Where are you?
Her eyes fell onto four figures surrounding a round table, three Caucasian and one African-American. One of the Caucasian men had a cigarette in his mouth, and all of them were having cards dealt to them by the African-American. Eames did not know who they were, and she knew Levi did not handle with people like that. But then again, he had drugged her, so maybe she did not really know what her ex-boyfriend was capable of.
She pushed herself off the floor and leaned against the wall, her body cramping as she moved. It felt like she had been shoved in a box and thrown around like a doll. Her joints begged to pop but she did not want them to. As she stretched out her unbounded legs her knees popped loudly, and she froze. Two of the men turned, one with thick muscles and black hair and another with brown hair and deep eyes.
"She's up, fellas," said the black haired one. The brown haired one smacked his friend on the back of the head.
"Nice, Bradley. What was ya first clue?"
"Shuddap, Ira," said Moss, standing from the table. Stover and the two others followed suit, Stover tossing his cigarette and smothering it with his shoe. They approached Eames, who was not intimidated by their large figures. The one with grey hair was the shortest of them all and probably not much taller than herself. The African-American grabbed her by her arm and pulled her up in one jerky movement. Her head snapped in his direction and she flashed him a livid glare, her eyes narrow.
"She's a nice piece of ass," said the small man as his eyes wandered over her. He reached out and touched her hair, to which she jerked back, trying to free herself from the tight grip on her arm.
Can it, buster.
"Shuddap, Seth," said Stover. "We ain't to do nothin' until Mike calls."
Moss leaned his tall frame into Eames' sight. "Why'd we haveta get this bitch?"
Excuse me?
Eames slammed her heel into Moss' foot, and he yelled out. She was thrown into the floor, and she landed on her left arm hard on her elbow. She cried out behind her gag, the only sound she made a groan, and she rolled onto her back. Herbert bent over her and glared into her eyes, and she only returned it. She could see Stover grabbing the one of the men fast out of the corner of her eye.
"Dillon, what're ya, crazy?"
"Jeez, sorry, dude," said Rush, wrenching his arm free. "I'll just drop her next time."
Eames was forced up by Moss and Herbert, both men standing at angles where she could not attack them with her feet. The carefully guided her to another corner, where they tossed her to the floor again. Her right shoulder fell into the wall, the dull pain from her previous fall switching sides.
Stover slowly lifted his gaze off Rush and turned sharply to Moss. "Bradley, if ya wanna end up like that punk we tipped into the Hudson, keep complainin'. If you want a hundred-thousand, ya stick with it. Got me?" barked Stover.
Moss seemed to understand, and he spit on Eames as he followed the others back to their poker game. Eames stared at them defiantly, only looking down to see Moss' saliva fall on her now dusty jacket. Leaning her head against the wall, she wondered why she was there.
What do they want with me?
"The game's seven card stud," said Rush.