Author's Note – I have no idea how much Alex Eames actually cares about Cary Grant movies, but I love them. Therefore, in my LO: CI world, Alex is stuck with this little personality trait. No exceptions. (Also, "yar" is a sailing term, meaning quick to the helm, easy to steer, etc.) And finally, I dedicate Bobby's driving habits to my friend GH, with whom car rides are always an adventure. Red light!

I'm gonna rock you like a baby when the cities fall
We will rise as the building's crumble
Float there and watch it all

DMB

He should have known it was going to be a shitty day when the memory of the day he had nearly gotten Alex and himself killed woke him at 3:00 in the morning and he resorted to late night TV viewing rather than attempt sleep again. It was 3:09 when he discovered TMC airing The Philadelphia Story with (who else?) Cary Grant. His first instinct was to call Alex and tell her that it was on, knowing that it was one of her favorites, but upon further reflection, he figured that she wouldn't appreciate the wake-up call. She tolerated a lot of things from him (including phone calls during odd hours) but interrupting her beauty sleep was only acceptable in the event of a new case - and even then, said call was required to be followed with a cup of steaming coffee when they met up at the crime scene. It was one of their unspoken rules.

Whether or not it was a sign from some all-knowing higher power, Bobby had no idea, but later on he had to wonder if maybe he shouldn't have heeded the not-so-obvious warning presented by the sudden appearance of both the dream and one of Alex's favorite movies in the same night and at relatively the same time. But even his uniquely talented brain didn't pick up on the signals, and so he watched the movie from beginning to end through half-closed lids – right through Katharine Hepburn's character telling Cary Grant, "Oh, Dexter, I'll be yar now; I promise to be yar" - then went to shower and shave while the coffee pot worked its magic, his mind mulling over the word "yar" for the fun of it.

Truth be told, Bobby always looked forward to going to work each morning, no matter how difficult or upsetting the case was that he and Alex were working on and the reason for that was simply because he knew that at 8:04 (or 8:12 if it was a coffee-instead-of-tea morning and she stopped at Starbucks on the way), she would emerge from the elevator and the day would officially begin. She would walk in, hang her coat on the rack near their desks, and seat herself opposite him, uttering a gentle, "Hey, Bobby" as she did so and in that moment, he would feel his chest tighten, then release in a wave of contentment.

But then the worry would settle in. Would today present a situation that put their lives on the line? Would today be the day that he had to tell her that it wasn't worth it – that he wasn't worth it? Would he ever be able to tell her that the knowledge that she was willing to die for him was the most powerful thing he'd ever known, but that the knowledge alone was enough without her proving it?

That morning, thanks to the recurrence of the dream, the worry set in before he even stepped off the elevator and was already simmering strongly by the time Alex arrived and observed, "You look like you didn't sleep at all last night."

"Lots on my mind and lots to do," he brushed off her concern and handed her the ME report he was poring over, gesturing with his pen to the bottom section. "It looks like our victim was poisoned before he was shot."

"Someone wanted to be very sure that he was dead," Alex frowned thoughtfully, reading the report for herself.

"Someone who didn't trust their knowledge of chemistry to get the job done," Bobby added. "Or maybe someone who couldn't wait for the poison to work."

"Any thoughts about who Nervous Nellie could be?" Alex wanted to know. "The ex-wife? The new fiancée? The trajectory shows that the shooter was short enough to be a woman."

Bobby shook his head in the negative to both suggestions and locked his eyes on hers the way that he normally did whenever they were putting the final pieces of a case together. He was resting his head in his right hand thoughtfully when he asked, "Who else had a motive to kill him? Who needed him to die in order to get what they wanted?"

She read his thoughts, for they spoke the answer in unison: "His son."

Bobby nodded emphatically. "The only way that he was going to get control of the family business was for his father to die. He initially tried to make it look like an accident – he poisoned him at the family dinner. But later they argued. He… he was desperate… enraged… His father was a dead man anyway so he shot him in cold blood."

"And he's only about five foot six, which made it look like his soon-to-be stepmother was behind it," Alex nodded appreciatively. The corners of her mouth turned up wryly: "I guess we should go have a chat with them about the way they handle their family business."

Bobby nodded in agreement but didn't speak, instead rising with his much-abused notebook in hand and gesturing in his most chivalrous fashion for Alex to lead the way to the elevator.

During their drive to the apartment of their suspect, Walt Morgan, Bobby thumbed through his case notes and attempted to organize his thoughts, leaving Alex free to drive in peace and make passing comments about the abilities (and inabilities) of the cab drivers of the city of New York. At her occasional fuming ("The pedal on the right makes the car go, buddy" and "Do you think we can write tickets for excessive braking just because it's annoying me?"), he chuckled softly, as always amused by the competitive spirit she demonstrated so clearly behind the wheel. It was that (and the fact that he was usually far too distracted by their cases to drive responsibly) that had caused her to request the driving privileges when they'd first been partnered and he'd let her have them, if only because he could see how much it meant to her. (For her part, however, Alex maintained that the reason she always drove was because he'd been so distracted by a ring of credit card thefts that they'd investigated during their sixth month together, she'd uttered the phrases, "Bobby, red light," "Red light means stop," and "Red – stop!" no less than thirty times during the course of one twenty minute drive. Bobby maintained that this was an exaggeration; it had been no more than sixteen.)

The first niggling suspicion that something wasn't right about the situation hit Bobby as they climbed the stairs to Morgan's apartment. ("A third floor walk-up?" Eames observed, annoyed. "No wonder he was mad at his father – with the kind of money that company brings in, there should at least be an elevator.") Bobby couldn't place the feeling exactly, but between the dream that morning and the eerie déjà vu that went with their walking into what should not turn out to be dangerous situation, he couldn't help but wonder why his necktie was all of a sudden feeling too tight and constricting.

Should be.

How many other cops had made assumptions about how situations should be, only to be proven wrong at the most inopportune moment? How many "woulda, coulda, shoulda" scenarios had to be tossed around because of such assumptions?

And how many cops had died as a result?

"3B, this is it," Alex halted in front of Morgan's door and proceeded to knock authoritatively. Her confidence seemed as firmly in place as always and her demeanor was resolved and focused - in total contrast to Bobby's suddenly wavering perspicacity.

While they waited for a response, his nerves ceased their simmering and moved directly into a full boil, his fingers twitching uncontrollably at his sides as though they were seeking the smooth comfort of his notebook down in the car. And yet the rational part of his brain - the "it was just a dream, you big moron" part that saw only logic and didn't accept the existence of pure coincidence or déjà vu - also kicked in at full throttle, reminding him, "This is just a simple sit-down with a suspect, Goren. Don't make it into something bigger than it is."

Still, he felt himself jump at the click of a lock being unfastened and a voice asking, "What are you two doing here? Have you found my father's killer?"

Walt Morgan's pale and earnest face came into view then as he cracked the door open a few inches and peered out at them, green eyes questioning.

"We actually were hoping to ask a few additional questions of you, Mr. Morgan," Alex used her smooth, professional tone and, while she hadn't glanced back at her partner, the way she positioned herself so that her right shoulder was pressed gently into Bobby's lapel let him know that she sensed something was amiss with him.

"Anything I can do to help," Morgan nodded, though he didn't open the door any further, seeming instead to be content answering questions from his current position.

Bobby felt his usual "charming detective" persona come over him as he observed this behavior and his head tilted automatically to the left as he asked, "May we step inside, Mr. Morgan? Detective Eames and I had to climb all the way up here and all and, whew! I could use a seat."

"And a glass of water," Alex agreed supportively.

"A third floor walk-up," Bobby shook his head sympathetically. "Man!"

Their affable tones were usually persuasive enough in similar situations and during the tenure of their partnership, both had learned that when it didn't work, something was definitely amiss, so Bobby instantly felt himself tense again when Morgan's eyes veiled over and he remained staunchly in place.

"I don't think so," the man replied firmly. "I can answer just fine from right here."

Undeterred, Bobby kept up the charming routine, though attempted a different tact in his second approach. "Really? Because these things usually take more than a few minutes and it's not as though we haven't seen messy apartments before. I mean, you should see my place – I have books everywhere and it's just a disaster some days."

"It's terrible," Alex shook her head in mock disgust. "He's not a neat freak at all."

Morgan's face grew stonier at their cheerful banter and Bobby felt an automatic twist in his gut while his hand fought the urge to seize his weapon from its holster on his belt. In front of him, Alex too tensed and he could tell that she was having the same thoughts. Whether Morgan was hiding something or not was immaterial; what was more important was how he would act if they backed him into a corner – which their instincts told both of them was necessary in this case.

We're not wearing vests. The thought appeared in Bobby's mind as though imprinted on a flashing neon sign and he wanted so badly in that moment to step in front of his partner that his right foot actually lifted from the floor before he caught himself. It wouldn't do anybody any good to jump to conclusions just yet, nor would escalating the mood help any of them reach a peaceful end to things.

Steady, Goren, he thought, the voice in his head resembling his old rifle instructor from the Army more than his own. Just take your time, think this through, and breathe. There's a rhythm here; you just have to find it.

How many times during his stint in the service had he heard that gentle intonation? How many times had he done just as he was instructed and hit his mark successfully? Probably hundreds and, in a way, this situation wasn't all that different; instead of a rifle, however, this time he would need to use his words. Good thing words were his second most important weapon in this line of work.

"You know what?" Morgan asked them suddenly. "On second thought, this isn't really that good of a time. Any chance of you coming back later with your questions?"

He's giving us an out, Bobby thought in his rational mind while the rest of his brain screamed at him to take his partner by the arm and run. This is it. Whatever happens next will determine the outcome.

And Bobby couldn't fight the sudden feeling he had that the world as he knew it was about to end. He couldn't pinpoint the reasons why; all he knew was that whatever happened next was somehow going to change everything.

TBC