A/N: Don't you worry, my dear readers...there will be plenty of Logan for you all to enjoy!
A/N 2: I know my NYC streets, but I never quite figured out the building numbering system, so let's just pretend the address I give in this chap is valid...
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They stopped for Dunkin' Donuts coffee on the way, but with Alex driving they still managed to arrive at the front door of 1105 Central Park West at exactly 3:28. The doorman took a look at their badges and just nodded, waving them to the elevator.
Goren took a close look at his partner as the elevator car began its thirty-five story trek and decided that being called out in the middle of the night must be much more frustrating for a woman than for a man, if the scowl on her face and smudged make-up around her eyes were anything to judge by.
"What?" she said, noticing his stare.
"You have, uh . . ." He reached out and used his thumb to wipe the area under one of her eyes, then held it up to show her the black residue. "You have mascara smudges."
"Crap. I should know better than to let myself fall asleep without taking off my makeup."
"Deakins probably won't notice. If he does, tell him you had a hot date with Logan."
"Bobby," she said, narrowing her eyes threateningly.
"Just a suggestion." He looked away from her and focused on the rapidly-changing floor number display, which was just flicking from 34 to 35.
They stepped out of the elevator into a hallway crammed with people. Checking to make sure she was behind him, Bobby began to plow a trail through the mass of humanity, murmuring a series of apologies to the people he stepped on or tripped over.Alex simply followed along in his wake, dispensing apologetic smiles to those who looked offended at their passage.
"Goren, Eames!" Deakins called when he saw them enter the plush, sunken living room of Gabrielle Young's apartment. "Listen, I didn't want to call you guys out so late, especially right after you closed the Kim case, but it's out of my hands - you guys are here by special request of the brass, who apparently are afraid of being sued by the widower if we don't solve this ASAP." Noticing the questioning looks on their faces, he shrugged and added sarcastically, "Must be a new regulation: thou shalt kowtow to the opposite side."
They stepped closer to him and the body he was standing next to, presumably that of Ms. Young. Alex drew in a sharp breath at the sight of the dead woman's face, which was puffy and discolored, at least where it wasn't covered with dried blood. "I thought you said she was shot!"
"She was. Guess the perp just wanted to have a little fun before he got down to business."
She wrinkled her nose at his less-than-couth phrasing and just moved on, walking around the body to get a better idea of the circumstances. "Well, she was already settled in for the night," she said to no one in particular as she noted the woman's silk peignoir and lack of jewelry. "Is the M.E. here yet?"
Deakins nodded, waving vaguely toward the other side of the room, where a cluster of people in Forensics jackets stood.
Alex glanced back at Bobby and, finding him prone on the floor next to Gabrielle Young, just shook her head and headed in the direction Deakins had indicated.
Deakins looked down at his remaining detective just in time to see him lift the woman's shirt and peek under it. "Every time I think you've bottomed out, you manage to get weirder," he told Goren with a sigh.
"I'm checking for . . .signs of abuse. If her face is battered, it's reasonable to wonder if the rest of her also is."
"And is it?"
"Doesn't look like it." He replaced the shirt and stood up, using his wrist to scratch his face so he didn't contaminate his glove. "It's possible they're just well-healed, but I . . . I don't think she was a victim of regular violence."
"That doesn't help."
Goren shrugged. "It might in the future." Bending back over the body, this time looking at the woman's face, he began to list the visible injuries: "Broken nose . . . split bottom lip. Lacerated frenulum, black eye. One loosened tooth. Who's the husband and where is he?" he added, looking up at Deakins.
"Norman Young. I think the uniforms moved him to the hallway. I started ignoring him after the fifteenth time he told me that our department's response is an 'outrage' and he had 'powerful friends.'"
Bobby looked over his shoulder toward the front door and began, "I'm going to go -"
His sentence was cut off by a bloodcurdling scream that suddenly rent the air. All heads jerked up as everyone's eyes tried to locate the source of the noise. There was another wail, this time more intelligible: "Mommy!" Then there was a commotion as the screamer was restrained from moving any closer to the body.
The two men standing near the body exchanged apprehensive looks before Goren straightened up with a quiet groan and moved toward the source of the noise.
What he found when he reached the doorway was a woman of about twenty, being restrained from dashing to the body by a uniform and a man who must have been her father. Her heart-shaped face was red and tear-stained, and she looked like she had jumped out of bed to come here - as they all had - but forgotten to change out of her pajamas. Her flannel pants and oversized t-shirt were wrinkled, he noticed, and the ponytail holding her hair back resembled the one Alex had hastily scraped her own hair into an hour ago when she had gotten out of bed.
As he continued to study the girl, she seemed to give up the struggle; choosing instead to sag back into the arms of her supporters.
Goren met the eyes of the uniform, who nodded and released her arm, then turned his attention to the girl's father, who seemed to be torn between concern for her and anger at the situation. His head took on a pugnacious tilt as he watched Goren approach, but when the detective slowly reached out to touch the girl's free arm, he made no objection.
"Miss?" Bobby said gently, bending down to see her face better.
Drawing in a shuddering breath, the girl raised her head slightly to look at him. "Who . . ." She stopped and made a visible effort to steady her voice. "Who are you?"
"My name is Robert Goren. I'm a, uh, detective. Are you Gabrielle Young's daughter?"
She nodded, her eyes moving again to the still form lying inside the room.
"What's your name?" he asked. After quickly meeting her father's eyes and getting tacit permission, he steered her out of sight of the body and then out of the room entirely.
She glanced over her shoulder once more at her mother's still form, then allowed Bobby to lead her into the hallway. "My name's Claire," she replied almost inaudibly.
"Claire," he repeated. "Pretty name. Do you live here, in this apartment, Claire?"
She shook her head, not bothering to push back the thick lock of blonde hair that fell over her face with the movement. "I live downtown, with my boyfriend. I . . . I got here as soon as I could after my dad called me." Fresh tears began to fall as she was reminded of why she had come. "I should have stayed . . ."
Now that was an intriguing statement. To his frustration, though, Goren could tell that the distraught girl was teetering on the edge of her self-control, and therefore now was not a good time for more questions.
If he wasn't going to get anything from the daughter tonight, he needed to get back to the body; however, he definitely didn't want to bring Claire back into the room. After a moment's thought, he said, "Claire, I'm going to go get your father, ok? You stay here."
A few minutes later, Claire and Norman Young were clinging to each other in the hallway under the watchful eye of an officer whose name tag identified him as "McNeil," and Bobby was making his way to where his partner stood with Captain Deakins.
"Did I see you talking to the husband back there?" Eames asked when he stopped beside her.
"Daughter. She was the one screaming."
"God," Deakins said with a shake of his head, "poor kid. Was she able to tell you anything?"
"I think she does have something to . . . to, uh, tell, but she's too shaken up right now to answer questions adequately," Goren sighed.
Alex gave him a quick look, surprised at his statement. She'd always known that Bobby Goren treated emotionally fragile witnesses gently, but usually he found a way to get them to talk through their tears. An image of Maggie Coulter flashed through her mind - the stouthearted child sobbing in Goren's arms as he coaxed the truth from her - and suddenly she felt the urge to go find Gabrielle Young's daughter and hug her.
"What?" Bobby's voice broke into her thoughts. "You're staring at me."
She shook her head. "Nothing important. Just remembering how good you are with emotional witnesses."
"Well if he's so good with them, I'd like to know why he didn't get Claire Young to talk," Deakins spoke up.
"She's still half-asleep and trying to get her head around what happened. Questioning her now, when her head's clouded, would be superfluous, because we'd just have to question her again when she had calmed down."
Deakins rolled his eyes and threw up his hands, repeating sarcastically under his breath, "It's 'superfluous'." Drawing in a breath, he looked around the room, noticing the slow dispersal of officers and techs that had been going on for a few minutes now. "We're done here. Go home, both of you. But Bobby, I want that girl interviewed as soon as possible."
"Yeah, uh, tomorrow," Goren muttered, already getting ready to herd Eames out the door. "Night."
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"What'd you find on the body?" Alex asked half an hour later as she turned the car onto Bobby's block.
"Not much that you didn't see at first glance. Bruising on the face but not on the torso. Small-caliber entry wound, mid-forehead, but no exit wound."
She glanced at him. "No fun smells?"
"No," he replied, oblivious to the question being her attempt at a joke. "What did you get from forensics?"
"Same story. Small caliber, body in fairly good condition. Dead four to six hours, judging by liver temp. What time is it?" she asked as she pulled into a parking space.
"Four thirty-five. Why?"
"We can still catch three hours of sleep."
He sighed. "What's the -"
"Don't you dare," she interrupted, "ask me what the point of going back to sleep is. You can stay up and alphabetize your pantry if you want, but I'm old and I need my beauty rest."
"Old," he echoed with a snort, following her through the security door and into the elevator. "If you're old, then what am I?"
"Hyperactive," she retorted with a smirk. "So, you talked to the daughter . . . did you talk to the husband too?"
"No, but I think one of the uniforms did."
"Well, did someone at least get contact information for everyone?" she asked impatiently as they stepped off the elevator on his floor.
"I sent McNeil to stay with them," he said evenly. "He was pulling out a notepad when I left."
"Mmm." That had been a dumb question to ask, she reflected. Gathering contact information from people at a scene was elementary to any police officer with more than five minutes of experience. She knew that if Bobby wasn't as tired as he obviously was, he would have called her on the insulting question. "Sorry," she mumbled, taking his keyring and pulling out the one for his door.
"S'ok." He glanced at the kitchen as they walked in, then looked back at her and yawned. "I think the pantry's going to have to wait."
"Good." She kicked off her shoes, shrugged off her coat, and disappeared into the bedroom, shedding clothes as she went.
Bobby watched her, sighed, and followed more slowly, hanging up or folding each article of clothing she dropped. By the time he got his own clothes off and walked to the bed, she was already buried under the blankets.
She poked her head out when she felt the bed give under his weight and gave him a smile. "One day I'm going to break you of the cleaning habit."
"Not likely." He dropped a kiss on top of her head as he lay down beside her, murmuring, "You'll thank me in the morning."