A/N: This chapter was called Morgue, then Modern but just got its title about 5 mins before posting. Makaveli is also on my M-word bank because he's the greatest and Makaveli never lied. In my world the election is not happening so it's not happening in the fic either.
As always, enjoy x
Chapter 27: Machiavellian
Saturday 15th October, 1.31am, East New York, Brooklyn
Despite being the first homicide detectives on the scene at Van Siclen Ave where Salome Veracruz was shot and robbed during a drug run in her boyfriend's place, the narcotics detectives were stonewalling them; not even letting the paramedics take the body. The 19-year-old woman from Washington Heights was shot eight times, an excessive use of gunfire as she was only carrying $5000 of cocaine. Fusco was embroiled in a heated discussion with Detective Valdes, who had worked with Cal some years ago, but he wasn't winning. After some choice swear words were exchanged, including a portmanteau ending in "tard" that he must've learnt from Shaw, Fusco retreated and they returned to her sedan. Of course, on a night like this John would be in the backseat of her sedan. "Evening, folks." John said casually.
"If it isn't Ben 10." Fusco joked.
Joss smiled at the glassy blue eyes in her rear-view mirror. "Are we moonlighting tonight?"
"Not exactly, I have information on why the narcs are being so cagey though."
"Great. Let's hear it, snitch."
"The boyfriend, Anjel Soldado, moves product for Kairo. And the DEA wants him so the narcs are co-operating."
Fusco wasn't on that particular rescue mission. "Who's Kairo?"
"A wannabe drug kingpin who resorts to kidnapping relatives so his soldiers in jail won't talk." Joss explained.
"And I'm guessing there's a shiny new report on the latest kidnapping in that pile on your desk." Fusco teased.
Joss fired back. "And I'm guessing Hazel bailed 'cause there's no smoke without fire. Team Shusco."
"So anyway, I bet Narcotics is trying to take down Kairo – medium fish – as bait for a big fish. What's his name?" Fusco asked.
"If I tell you, you can't deny knowing later."
10.40am, Turner Hall, Emory University
After a night of ones, zeros, x's, y's and more Greek letters than a fraternity conference, Taylor started on a large bowl of multi-coloured cereal and a coffee from the malfunctioning machine down the hall that was 'giving' cups away for free. He could barely remember a thing, even though he'd learnt the night before and started to get that anxious feeling he was going to flunk his next test. Brock watched him eat, waiting for an in. Taylor deleted an unread message from Isabella because its subject was "Longlisted!" and he wasn't happy for her. It was clear he'd woken up on the wrong side of the bed that morning, and his roommate wasn't going to help turn it around.
"She stopped by last night with some friends." Brock told him. "But you'd already crashed."
Taylor sighed because he thought they'd been over it already. "Who did?"
"You know."
"Her name's Zahra. It won't kill you to say it."
Brock went pink because he wasn't used to confrontation. "She…Zahra, came by 'cause you missed her calls."
The smartphone with the gel Gameboy phone case was out of battery. "Okay. I'll call her later. You want some or something?" Taylor asked, because he kept staring at him and it was putting him off his favourite cereal.
"No, I already ate. Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
Brock posed a philosophical question. "D'you ever feel bad about what you've done? Not you-you, just…"
"Hypothetically?"
"Yeah."
"No more than anyone else does." Taylor reasoned, finishing off the cereal. "You feel bad 'cause you're human, then you get over it."
"What if you can't?"
Taylor shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. Talk to someone, I guess."
Brock perked up. "Like, to an accountability partner?"
Taylor didn't want to know what that was so he didn't ask. "I meant your friends, parents…" He thought of Gregory. "Sensei."
Brock looked puzzled. "Sen-what?"
"Forget it."
3.30pm, Matero Apartment Complex, Roosevelt Island, East River, Manhattan, New York
In the name of being efficient, Calista wouldn't rest until Zoe returned Tamsin Ashe's calls as she'd left two messages already. The college student thought she was a fashion designer or a socialite after seeing the Californian area code, but she wasn't. Tamsin was Zoe's mother, and they were somewhat-estranged as being estranged would've been too much effort. It had been eight months since they last spoke, so Tamsin was quite surprised that her image-conscious daughter had 'grown' since their last meeting. In contrast, Mother looked like a soap star.
"What have I missed?" Tamsin used her usual greeting.
Zoe didn't see the point in holding it in, she'd even told the doorman downstairs when she picked up her mail. "Your grandchild's on its way."
Tamsin was glad she didn't jump the gun and recommend a hot spinning class. "Congratulations"" She exclaimed, though the stillness of her non-moving forehead contradicted her broad, laser-white smile. "So when do I meet him?"
You don't. "He's not in the picture."
Tamsin flicked her chestnut brown hair. "Well, such is life. Congratulations. I have to see you." Zoe forced a smile.
4.07pm, Watergate Apartments, East 54th Street, Midtown, New York
When Joss agreed to view a place to see what his taste was like, John didn't think it was a test or anything other than a sign that she might be warming up to the idea of moving out together. Poor naïve John. From the moment Joss saw the two entry closets and the second bathroom, something didn't sit right with her. She gave him credit for getting a second bedroom, that would presumably function as a gym/gun storage unit until Taylor came home for the holidays, but it didn't feel like home. "Can we have a moment?" She asked the estate agent.
"Of course, Mrs Nichols. I'll be in the living room."
As soon as they were alone, John knew what was up. "You don't like it. I thought you like the modern, minimalist thing."
"I do buuuuuut..." She looked around the Master bedroom. "It looks like a place you'd run to or from. Like a pit stop apartment."
He didn't know what she meant. "Pit stop?"
"You know, like the place in Harlem Heights, then the loft in Soho, and the condo in Tribeca, and that hole in Hell's Kitchen under the Korean restaurant."
John hadn't considered settling down until they made it to Scranton. If they made it to Scranton. "I thought you'd want somewhere for the meantime."
"I do, just something more homey. A sanctuary in the big bad city."
He nodded. "Like your place."
"John, that's not what I meant. We can see somewhere else, right?"
He didn't know what she wanted which meant they were definitely married. "Right."
5.29pm, Turner Hall, Emory University
Armed with a stuffed burrito, snacks and an energy drink called Hi-score that was banned from his school because of its taurine content, Taylor attempted to crack the ass-kicking, confounding form of calculus because he was no punk. But two people stood in his way, one was at his door when he returned and she wasn't happy.
"What happened last night? Almond Mocha was playing at Subterrain, remember?" His blank face showed he didn't. At all. "Tay?"
He couldn't come up with an excuse to make it better so he chose the truth. Poor, naïve Taylor. "I forgot. This thing is driving me crazy so…I have to get back to it."
Her meme-worthy face forewarned him. "So you just forgot making plans with me?"
Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap. His groceries felt heavier in his hands, even though they weren't. "I really need to study. Can you come back tomorrow?" It sounded much more plausible in his head.
"Fine." Her tone said it was anything but.
Reflecting on his dad's (and the Fresh Prince's) advice that 'girls ain't nothing but trouble', Taylor turned the key to find a guy with a gingham shirt and slacks sitting on Brock's bed, as his roommate stood in front of him and read from a sheet of lined paper. "…and I was wrong for telling Cherie she looked nice, 'cause her outfit was defrauding and, umm, I was complimenting immodesty."
"What the-?" Taylor exclaimed. "What are you doing?"
Brock went pink again, and the guy on the bed stood up and extended his hand. "I'm Hugh Barker-Wells, I've heard a lot about you."
Taylor couldn't shake his hand because all he saw was scum. "What were you doing?"
Neither Brock or Hugh could explain, and Hugh had that look on his face most small children had when they were caught pulling the dog's tail. "Sharing." Hugh said, with conviction.
"So you're the accountability partner?" Taylor asked.
Hugh nodded emphatically and recited from that shiny postcard Taylor had thrown away with his gum wrappers. "Us young men should set the standard, and help each other."
Taylor knew instinctively the best outcome was for Hugh to leave. "I've gotta study. Calc test on Wednesday." Hugh looked comfortable, like it was his room. "And I need to write my World Religion paper on Buddhism. I read out loud."
Hugh couldn't leave fast enough. "Well, I have to prepare for tomorrow. See you at 9?"
Brock nodded and opened the door for him to leave. They didn't know what to say to each other; because Brock was embarrassed and because Taylor was embarrassed for him. Whatever they were doing was wrong, Taylor knew that much, but there was no point in adding to the humiliation so instead he asked, "D'you have burritos in Jasper?"
Brock shook his head. "But I like the frozen ones."
Taylor shuddered at the thought; those two words should never be spoken in the same sentence.