Chapter 8 - Gamesmanship

Goren returned to his desk with a fresh cup of coffee while Eames was logging back into her computer as herself. She would start a search on Bishop's activity for the past five months – credit cards, bank accounts, social security number … anything that might tell them where she'd been or what she'd been up to. He was about to ask if she was going to eat the danish sitting on her desk when Deakins walked into the squad room.

"Eames. My office."

She looked at Bobby then got up to follow the captain. Goren grabbed his binder to join them, but Deakins stopped him. "Just her. IAB called me at home this morning," he sounded pretty irritated. "They're on their way up."

"Well … I need to be there. This all … started with me," he argued.

"Goren," Deakins was firm, "we'll call you if we need you."

So he was stuck sitting at his desk glaring at the IAB guys in Deakins' office as they questioned Eames. Every so often voices were raised and it took everything he had not to go in there and tell them exactly what they could do with those photos.

The whole time he was also watching Eames. She looked calm and confident, far more than he knew she felt.

Less than an hour later the two men from IAB walked past Goren on their way out, nodding a greeting but saying nothing. He got up and walked into the Captain's office. "Well?"

"No surprise … IAB had copies of the photos waiting for them this morning," Deakins explained. "They came up here looking for answers."

"Apparently Timmons' death bought us some time," Eames joined in. "It doesn't feel right to them, but they're anxious for the results of the photo analysis."

"Yeah, well … they're not the only ones," Goren looked expectantly at Deakins.

"I'll call down and see what's taking so long."

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"If these are fakes, they're damn good ones." Samuel Smith was the typical GenX techy type. Straight, reddish-brown hair with a blunt cut just below his ears, baggy jeans that looked two sizes too big, and a tee-shirt with some obscure saying that Goren was still trying to figure out. But the lab assured him Smith was the best.

He had the photos on an opaque projector in the conference room, producing an enlarged image against the far wall.

"There's no 'if.' They're fakes," Goren set him straight. "How was it done?"

Smith looked surprised but not intimidated by the reprimand. "Well, someone would really have to know what they're doing. See here?" He used his pen as a pointer under the projector light. "The lighting and shadows … eye contact between the subjects … damn good job."

"But not impossible," Deakins persisted.

"Anything's possible, with the right equipment and talent," Smith sounded impressed. He moved the photos on the projector platform, studying select areas of the image on the white wall.

"Hold it," Goren jumped up out of his chair. "Move it back … here …" he reached out and slid the photo under the lens. "Can you zoom … enlarge this area?"

Smith turned a knob and adjusted the focus. Bobby felt a grin spread across his face while Deakins, Eames and Smith all looked baffled.

"Just … wait …" Goren held up his hand as left the conference room. Digging through his desk drawers, he was pulling out papers and throwing them on a pile. I know it's here somewhere … ah! He held what he was looking for and saw exactly what he remembered. Walking back to the conference room, his grin widened.

"Remember this?" he handed the snapshot to Alex.

"The Christmas party … four years ago." She seemed surprised to see the picture of the two of them seated at a table with a Christmas tree in the background. They'd leaned close together and smiled for the camera. His arm was draped across her shoulders. "You kept this?"

He snatched the photo back from her. "It's a good picture of me."

Goren placed the snapshot next to one of the photos already under the projector, adjusting them for a side-by-side display of the area he wanted. "Notice anything?"

"Not really," Deakins squinted at the images.

But Alex smiled. She looked at him and raised her left hand. "I didn't have these," she said as she ran her fingers lightly over the tiny earrings outlining her ear.

"No … you didn't have them four years ago," he said quietly. "But they're on these two photos. Bishop and Wallace wouldn't have known."

All that time spent watching her tuck her hair behind her ear … all that time contemplating the delicate shell and the soft skin behind … it was now worth more than just some pleasant fantasies.

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It turned into another long day. First, they called IAB back up to the eleventh floor to show them the photos and Bobby's snapshot. They had let Smith loose with the technical explanation of how to digitally alter images, including specifications and details of the software and equipment necessary for such a feat. Smith's eyes shone throughout, while everyone else's glazed over. Well, everyone except Goren … he was interested.

After that, Alex was determined to get back on her computer to begin researching Bishop, but Bobby thought the strain was starting to show. He made a point of taking her to lunch – wanting to get her away from the squad room for a break. The big concession was agreeing to her favorite soup and salad place instead of the sandwich shop with the pastrami on rye he was craving.

They got back to their desks to find the ME's report on Timmons. No big surprises there. Single gunshot wound to the head. Alcohol and barbiturates found in his system. GSR testing inconclusive – he may have held the gun when it was fired, but he may have had help.

Foster's case files followed quickly on the heels of the ME report. Forensics had gone through every piece of paper, every note, every photo in the file and found nothing out of the ordinary.

Alex still hadn't had a chance to research Bishop and by now it was mid-afternoon. Bobby took the files into the conference room to begin combing through them while Eames stayed at her desk on the computer.

"Hey." Alex's tired voice broke through his concentration. Bobby glanced at the clock to see it was almost 7:00. He'd been so immersed in motivations, strategies and planning that he hadn't even noticed time passing.

"You find anything?" he asked.

She shook her head and walked over to sit across the table from him. "Whatever she's been up to, it hasn't been done with her money or in her name." She brought a fist up to rub wearily at her eyes. "How about you?"

"I think … I've, uh … figured out a few things." He got up and walked around the table. Alex stood up and faced the bulletin board where he had grouped pictures – one side for Foster's case, the other for the photos of her and Timmons' murder.

"This …" he traced his hand over the pictures and notes from Mark Fosters murder, "This is planned, thought out. It's … aimed at you. Aimed at discrediting you."

"This …" Goren moved to the other side. "It feels … improvised. The pieces fit together, but it's more … desperate. It's aimed at me. It uses you, but it's aimed at my investigation … my failure." He stepped back to take in the entire spread of photos. "Timmon's death … he was killed only because he recognized Bishop. It was staged to look like Foster's … in an attempt to disguise it as part of the whole. But there's no tie to you or me. His death is tied only to ... to Bishop."

"Here …" he walked back over to Foster's side of the bulletin board, "You should have investigated this case with me … but you didn't. That destroyed their plan … ruined whatever they hoped to achieve."

He stood behind Alex as they both considered the complicated and damaging evidence before them. Bobby briefly rubbed her back between her shoulder blades – wanting to reassure and comfort her. "Nicole was right about one thing. Logan and I didn't spend enough time investigating." She twisted to look up at him.

"Not your involvement …" he clarified. "Valderez's death. I don't think he OD'd … not without help. His death was their concession of the game."

"So, this …" Alex gestured toward Foster's side of the board, "is Bishop. And this," she knocked her fist on the photos of her, "is Nicole."

Bobby shook his head. "Bishop and Nicole," his hand swept over Foster's photos. "Nicole," he slapped his hand flat on Eames' pictures.

"If everything you're saying is true, and I'm not saying it's not … why did they wait so long to kill Mark. It was almost a year after we dated."

He nodded and squeezed her shoulder – she'd just hit on the one thing that had been bothering him the most. Until he figured it out.

"Because Deakins said she needed a couple years' seasoning. Foster was killed, what … a year and a half after you came back? Add a couple of months … for all of this to get you out," his hand again swept over the crime photos. "Bishop would have been the logical choice for your replacement. She would have been back in MCS … and Nicole would have had a 'plant' on the squad."

"Working next to you …"

TBC…