Disc:
usual applies
A/N:
Forgot to thank my lovely Beta,
Cyko1003... I
appreciate her Grains of Falling wisdom,
the kind Demeanor with
which she edited this fic - even on days when I felt like it was
Lying on a Fault Line.
;)
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Chapter
3
Lindsay: Foreboding
She was walking across a rickety rope bridge, unable to take her eyes from the rushing current in the gorge ten feet below. She tried not to think about the hungry crocodiles in that churning water, and instead focused on planting her feet firmly on each plank. Danny was just ahead of her, inching along the bridge ever so cautiously. She had no idea where he was going or why he was even out here, but had attempted to follow him anyway. Her shouted inquiries to him had gone unanswered, or - given the roaring of the water - perhaps unheard. The bridge was swaying violently with each terrified step she took. Suddenly, one of the rungs split with a loud crack, tumbling into the torrent below. Danny was sucked down into the hole left behind. Lindsay tried desperately to catch him, reaching out to grab his hand before he fell, but she missed. She watched helplessly as he was swept away. All she could think to do next was scream.
"Danny!" Lindsay sat straight up in bed, tremors of terror wracking her petite frame.
He sat up just as quickly, and it occurred to her that he must have already been awake. Instantly, he gathered her in his arms and stroked her hair in an attempt to pacify her.
"Shhh, easy," he whispered soothingly, rubbing her shoulders. "It's all right, it was just a dream." This wasn't the first time he had witnessed the aftermath of Lindsay's nightmares.
"I tried to catch you," she gasped, then began babbling details. "The bridge was so shaky and the water underneath was moving so quick, and I heard something break and you started falling and I couldn't help you, it happened so fast…"
Danny continued rocking, leaning them both back against his pillow as she tried to catch her breath. "I'm right here," he murmured.
"I'm so afraid of losing you," Lindsay confessed, clutching to him tightly, on the verge of tears.
"You can't lose me," he whispered gently in her ear, and she heard the unspoken promise in his voice. "Not even if you tried."
----
Lindsay slept through the remainder of the night without incident. She was grateful when Danny failed to mention her nightmare the next morning. They simply readied for work in their usual manner, bustling about between the shower and the coffee pot. Even their ride to work together was ordinary. Still, something mysterious was weighing on her, and she felt enormous relief as she walked in the front doors of the lab. Nothing could occupy her mind quite like her job could. Danny gave her a quick goodbye peck on the lips, then headed off towards the ME's office. Lindsay was flagged down by Stella as soon as she stepped off the elevator.
"Morning," Lindsay greeted her. "What's up?"
"Hey!" Stella said. "There was a homicide at the Truesdale estate, over in Brooklyn. You and I got the assignment - Flack's already at the scene." Lindsay nodded, her adrenalin beginning to pump. This was what she was meant to do.
"Just let me grab a kit," she replied. "Then we'll hit the road."
----
"So," Stella said as they began the drive across town to the crime scene.
"So," Lindsay responded benignly, shifting in the passenger seat to look at Stella. She wondered what exactly was coming.
"How's Danny holding up?" Stella asked. "I mean, he must be having a tough time, with Louie and the trial. How is he?"
"Strangely well, considering. I tried to talk to him last night, but he just shut down. He's acting completely normal, otherwise," Lindsay confided. As they rode, she gazed out the window at the busy city streets: this was just one facet of New York that never ceased to amaze her. "For some reason, his strength never wavers," she added. She flipped down the sun visor, using the mirror to apply a quick coat of lip gloss.
Stella looked over at Lindsay studying her reflection, and smiled. "I think you're looking at his reason."
----
A short time later, they pulled up in front of the grand, ivory-colored mansion of the Truesdale family. With it's weeping willow trees, curvy pillars, and manicured lawn, it evoked a feeling of antebellum South right there in New York.
Flack greeted Lindsay and Stella in the foyer and filled them in on the details of the crime.
"Alan Rothbart," he announced. "Private chef of the Truesdale family. One of the maids called 911 when she found the body in the pantry about an hour ago. From what we can tell, robbery was the motive. Cecilia Truesdale kept a hidden stash in the pantry, and someone else knew about it. Poor Mr. Rothbart just got in the way."
The three of them walked into the parlor, where Mrs. Truesdale sat speaking to an officer. She was pushing seventy, but the amount of makeup and jewelry she wore was akin to that of someone much younger. Her husband had died several years ago, and she was well-known in the community for the annual social event she hosted, which benefited the humane society. On her lap were two silken-haired red and white dogs with large, liquidy eyes and short muzzles.
"We wanted to take her prints for elimination, but the little mutts wouldn't let anyone get near her," Flack grumbled. As if on cue, one of the tiny pups bared its teeth at the officer.
"Cavalier King Charles Spaniels," Lindsay corrected him. "And besides, I doubt she has touched anything in the kitchen… from the looks of it, everything is brought to her."
Flack next led Lindsay and Stella back through a narrow, twisting hall into the dimly-lit pantry. Lindsay noted that it was actually larger than her own kitchen at home. The dead body was lying there, face down, covered in a layer of what appeared to be baking flour. A single gaping wound in the back of the head made the cause of death fairly obvious. A large, dented can of tomato sauce - likely the weapon which had caused the fatal blow - was next to the body, leaking a thick red paste onto the floor. The blood had not yet to begun to clot, and mixed with the tomato sauce and flour to create one big sticky mess.
"Stromboli a la corpse, anyone?" Flack joked.
One the floor nearby were several cookbooks which appeared to have been knocked off the shelf. One of the books lay open to a recipe for Almond-Crusted Chilean Sea Bass.
"That's where Mrs. Truesdale kept a wad of hundred dollars bills," Flack explained. "Between pages 54 and 55." When confronted with confused glances from Lindsay and Stella, he shrugged. "Her husband loved fish, apparently."
"That's a pretty wise move, you have to admit," Lindsay stated. "No one would think to look for valuables in the servants' area."
"There's footprints in the flour," Stella pointed out, beginning to snap photos. "Our killer was clumsy; I don't get the feeling that this was very well thought-out."
Lindsay nodded. "He probably wasn't intending to kill anyone. The question is: why kill someone, and then cover their body in a layer of flour?" She delicately lifted the can of tomato sauce, then sealed it in a plastic bag. "I'll check this for prints."
Stella frowned thoughtfully. "Any idea how the killer gained entry to the house?" she asked.
"The maid I talked to said Alan always left the back door wide open while he cooked breakfast," Flack informed her. "The heat from the oven made this room unbearable otherwise."
Lindsay and Stella went out the back door, following the trail of flour footprints which lead into the yard. The dust had turned doughy where the prints met the grass, still moist with morning dew. The tracks continued towards the alley, then disappeared.
Flack came up behind them as they inspected the area for any sign of trace.
"Nothing out here but this gooey stuff," Lindsay said, spooning some of the wet flour into an evidence bag.
Flack grinned. "Then I guess we'll be needing an arrest warrant for the Pillsbury Doughboy."
----
Back at the lab, Lindsay dusted the tomato sauce can for prints, and pulled off two different samples. Before she could scan the first one, a hand snaked around her waist, then up under her lab coat. She jumped, and a husky voice whispered in her ear: "They shouldn't hire such gorgeous investigators around here. It's impossible to get any work done."
Lindsay decided to beat Danny at his own game. "Gerald," she breathed. "Baby, we can't keep doing this here." Gerald was the lab's balding, sweaty, pot-bellied janitor, who always smelled of cigars and floor cleaner.
Danny drew back in mock horror, and Lindsay whipped around, laughing. "You should see your face!" she pointed.
"Very funny, Montana," he grumbled, his hands still on her. Danny's hands moved dangerously lower, sliding around the waistband of her pants. His fingers brushed against the skin of her stomach, causing tingles to radiate through her entire body. Lindsay firmly removed his wandering hand, but smiled.
"Are you flirting with me, Detective Messer?" she asked. "That's highly unprofessional."
"Sorry, I can't resist." He leaned over and kissed her forehead. "Let's go eat," he suggested.
Lindsay shook her head. "I can't, Danny. I've got to run these prints, I don't have time to take off right now."
"But I've missed you," he argued, a childish pout threatening to form on his lips.
"One more hour," Lindsay promised, secretly enjoying the fact that he longed for her so much. "Then we can take lunch together."
"Too long," Danny said, the pout forming after all.
She laughed and shook her head. Just then, Lindsay spotted Stella walking by, and recalled something she needed to tell her. She tossed an apologetic smile over her shoulder at Danny as she dashed out of the room. He winked and crossed his arms, as if daring her to walk away from him. She could stare at him all day, grinning like that, but an hour wasn't long. She would see him again soon.
