A/N: Megalomaniac is one of my favourite words ever, maybe it's the silent 'o' but I love how it sounds #wordnerd

Definition: Megalomania: obsession with the exercise of power OR delusion about one's own power or importance.

Still taking M words and trying to work marzipan and marsupial in somehow.

As always, enjoy x

Chapter 29: Megalomania

Monday 17th October, 9.14am, 8th Precinct

Although it was first thing in the morning and her coffee hadn't cooled down yet, Joss felt like she was being frogmarched into the principal's office when Laz the Police Aide informed her Captain Noguerra wanted to see her straight after his phone call. Even though Fusco was happy from another successful weekend 'getting back out there' and knew it would bring him down some, he volunteered to go in with her because he knew a set-up when he saw one. If he couldn't wash the stench of HR off then Joss would never lose the stink of being a 'rat'. Never.

Captain Noguerra cut straight to the chase, addressing Joss as though she was alone. "I heard you had an altercation with some Narcotics Detectives this weekend."

Joss tried to stay calm. "It wasn't an altercation, Captain. We were notified of a suspected homicide and at the scene, we were stopped from seeing Salome Veracruz's body. And we haven't heard anything since, not even if her family was informed."

"I suppose you agree?" He asked Fusco, going over Joss' head as though they were in a 1970s office and she was the coffee-making secretary.

"I do, Cap'n. Narcotics stonewalled us, we have an investigation to run too; that's our job."

Noguerra smiled like a superior does whenever they hand down a decree to their subordinates. "You'll be happy to know you've been relieved of this particular case. The 75th Precinct is handling the homicide investigation and Narcotics is taking care of the rest. In case I'm being unclear, you're no longer needed. Step down." He shot Joss a chilling look, daring her to take him on. But she said nothing. "And in case you're wondering, the DEA is already involved so you can rest easy, Detective Carter."

"Excuse me, sir?" Joss asked, despite Fusco's nudge not to take the bait.

"You've been known to engage government agencies. That's not necessary in this instance." He replied casually, confirming her suspicions that he was trying to get rid of her.

It took a swift walk outside, a brand new coffee, half a yum-yum and a few almost-swear words for Joss to calm down. "Don't wear it, Carter. He wants a reason to suspend you, or worse. Hang in there." Fusco advised, knowing he would never find another trustworthy partner who knew where the bodies were buried.

12.22pm, Turner Hall, Emory University

Brock was short on words when he left that morning to go out canvassing with Hugh. Taylor didn't mind having time alone, after all he was an only child, but there was a weird vibe in the room since Hugh first stepped in it and his gut told him there was more to that relationship than the brotherhood his roommate talked about. Because he couldn't predict what John would do if he said anything, and he was well aware of how his mom would overreact; he'd asked his dad to look into the phrase they kept repeating. "Did you tell Ma?" Taylor asked, as soon as he saw Dad on the screen.

"Not yet."

"Please, don't tell her. She'll freak out." Paul rubbed his chin on the other end of the line. He know keeping things from Joss never ended well but he figured Taylor wasn't a little kid anymore and it was his decision. "I'm not in it, I swear. It's Brock who goes to the meetings and the church. And something weird happened last week. He was like…confessing…but to some guy called Hugh. I don't even think he goes here. What'd you find?"

"It's a cult, Tay. The Righteous Upstanding Ministry for Men (R.U.M.M.) is known for…" He read from his printouts. "…its presence on campuses. It describes itself as a youth movement that promotes leadership, moral values and fellowship amongst young men. Uhh…ex-members described social isolation, academic underperformance, psychological stress and abuse of power within the group, and post-traumatic stress and shunning after leaving. There's a case pending of sexual abuse and two suicides have been linked to it already at a college in Florida." He coughed. "You wanna switch rooms?"

Taylor decided quickly. "No. I like Turner; it's quiet and I don't think Brock's a bad person he's just…"

"In a cult. Tay, it's up to you. But please, keep your distance."

"I'm not in it."

"I mean; don't let Hugh rile you up or bait you into an argument, that's how they work; by pushing your buttons. And we know you love debating 'cause you get it from me."

Somehow Taylor was able to smile despite the severity of what he heard. "I'll try. How's Gina?"

"Good, we're going to Philly this weekend for a dance competition."

The only dances he'd seen his dad do were the two-step and dances with his frat brothers that belonged in a time capsule, so he couldn't imagine him watching an al0girl dance troupe compete for hours. "We?"

"What? It's no different from a football or basketball team."

Taylor got the feeling he lost that argument and was going so he wouldn't lock horns with his girlfriend again. "Okay."

"How's Zahra?"

"Pretty good. She asked me if I'm with another girl or something."

"And?"

"I'm not, and that's what I told her."

"Oh."

"Oh?" Paul laughed. "What's funny?"

"'Cause you just made her your girlfriend."

"No, I didn't. I never said she's my girlfriend."

"Yes. You did. It's implied." Craaaaaaap. "Tay, they never ask just to ask. They ask to know where they stand. I guess you never had that talk with Bella 'cause you were inseparable anyway."

He was right. Bella was his girlfriend because they spent as much time together as possible, it was never said; it just was. And at the time, he liked it that way. "I like Zahra, I just-"

"Wasn't trying to get into another relationship. But here you are; doing relationship things."

"But we're not having s-"

"I know. Which means you do listen. Sometimes. Kinda makes it worse."

"How?"

"Because…you've been doing what you're supposed to do at the start of a relationship; getting to know each other. If you were just hooking up, she wouldn't have the same expectations."

"Expectations?"

"Yeah – and trust me, women have truckloads of them. So, if you don't wanna be with her, you should tell her now; before she listens to Beyonce. Women do that too - a lot."

Taylor didn't get a chance to respond because there was a knock at the door. She came bearing snacks and an irrepressible smile. "Guess who just won two tickets to see Chance the Rapper on Fri-day?" She asked in her ecstatic, sing-song voice.

"Uhh, Dad? I'll call you back."

1.49pm, The LaFont Building, Two Bridges, New York

John, Finch and Shaw were part of the seated crowd a motivational speaking event hosted by the Trapezium Group called "Being your Best Self"; not because Finch was interested in this particular school of self-improvements, and definitely not for Shaw who believed she was the best and the baddest ever, but because the keynote speaker was their newest number. For once, John wasn't ducking and avoiding cameras because all camera phones were firmly pointed at Lester Harvest, 47, from Austin, Texas, who was born Emilio Perez in Toluca, Mexico. "And so, in closing; if you cannot be the poet; be the poem."

The crowd of 400 erupted in raucous applause at $59.95 a head. Finch was quite miffed that Lester didn't reference its source – actor David Carradine – and that instead of a table selling books, young men and women in high-vis jackets were walking around with contactless readers to take eBook and podcast orders. If his favourite detective was sitting next to him she would've called it a hustle and he would've agreed with a diatribe. Finch didn't have a long time to think because two burly security guards advanced towards his seat. John clutched his Baretta, but there was no need; they were clearing the way for Lester to speak to the richest man in the room - Harold Dunlin, owner of Dunlin Corporate Estates in a newly-gentrified part of Bedford-Stuyvesant. "Mr Dunlin, what a pleasure to have you in attendance."

They shook hands. "Thank you." Finch saw the camera rising. "Mr Harvest, I believe in discretion."

With a hand gesture the photographer turned in the opposite direction. "Of course. And thank you for your donation."

"I'm a…distant observer of your work. I'd like to discuss it further in a more private environment."

Lester nodded emphatically, because he saw dollar signs in the near future. "My assistant, Emily, will be in touch."

Finch gave him the metal business card with the details embossed. "Splendid. I look forward to hearing from you.

2.06pm, Turner Hall, Emory University

Brock wasn't expecting to find Zahra in their room, playing a loud angry cupcake game on Taylor's tablet. He didn't greet her, because that was socialising. "Where's Taylor?"

"Filling in at the library, someone left early to pick up their kid from pre-school." She looked at him, she didn't have to be pre-Med to know the pink blotches on his face were from anxiety. A guy she had never seen before followed him inside, wearing a similar semi-formal outfit.

"She's the girlfriend." Brock told Hugh, who looked her up and down a few times; focusing on her headwrap.

"I remember."

Even though Taylor hadn't called her his girlfriend, it still felt good to hear it. "She has a name and it's Zahra." She asserted herself and went back to her game which was the only noise in the room until Taylor returned a few minutes later.

"What's up?" Taylor asked, as Brock looked sick.

Brock cleared his throat. "I…can't be friends with you anymore. We have different beliefs…on what's right and what's wrong." Hugh nodded with approval.

Taylor was a quarter-inch away from saying they weren't really friends; just roommates who shared a burrito that time but he realised this was what his dad warned him about. "Fine. Zahra, you want Thai?"

She didn't understand what he was doing or why but she knew Hugh reminded her of a big-time athlete d-bag she'd come across in high school; showing off on the Quad and generally being an asshole at other people's expense. Asking her what spices she kept under her 'turban' and when she was going back to Saudi Arabia. He really wasn't worth it. But she was on level 17 already. "Sure. Can I bring this with?"

"Sure." Brock didn't know what to make of their leaving, other than Hugh was pleased with him and that must be a good thing.

3.37pm, 8th Precinct

Joss was halfway through the teeth-grinding read of a cold case file that landed on her desk; the whole 5-day investigation smacked with incompetence as the original owner didn't investigate what the murdered runaway had run away from in the first place. Fusco couldn't help his partner because Noguerra had hauled him into a 2-day First Aid course. The instrumental of the Theme from Shaft started playing and she knew John was calling. "You rang?"

He knew she was frustrated. "I have a proposition."

She looked around and thought at least three co-workers were watching her. Maybe it was paranoia. "Involving?"

"You…me…oysters…wine…"

"And?" She prodded, thinking she could really do with a toe-curling workout with John somewhere.

"A couple apartments."

She was intrigued. "How?"

"Birdman shortlisted some places for us with 360-degree virtual view."

"Okay. I'll let you know when I get off from work. And you?"

"I'm always on the clock."

She blushed. "That you are." She spotted Noguerra coming in the corner of her eye and regained her composure. "Uhh, gotta go. Bye."

"Carter, any thoughts?" Noguerra asked, oddly posing his question to an audience.

"The bruising on the neck and confirmation of strangulation in the autopsy suggested an imbalanced power relationship. Add that to the fractured cheekbone and my first thoughts are; we have a victim of sex-trafficking and the perp was a client."

"The victim was a 14-year-old boy." Noguerra fired back to discredit her argument.

"Yes, and a runaway from the foster system. Too young to age out, too old for adoption, too many to keep track. It's possible he had a verbal altercation with the last person to see him alive, it turned violent – if I can even say that – and he was murdered. In that case we're looking for a paedophile with a history of violence against boys, starting with the sex offenders' list."

"Let me know what you find."

She nodded and went back to work but he didn't move. "Sir?"

He suddenly became aware of how it looked and left her alone, but that feeling didn't go away with him. Suddenly the voice of her father played in her head, "target on my back…target on my back…" but she couldn't remember where she remembered it from or what he meant. Maybe she was making it up, maybe she was too young at the time to remember, maybe they were out on a hunting trip and he was talking about a deer or a rabbit. Maybe. Either way, she resolved to ask her mother soon and made a quick expensive order of the computers for the church so she'd have something to trade with for information about the past.