28
Aligned Design
Ch. 3
"Where do you think they are?" Bishop asked as she walked over to Eames' desk.
"I don't know. Do you think they're together? I just don't see it. Sledge and Goren hate each other." Eames replied.
It was nearly ten o'clock, Tuesday morning and the male halves of the two partnerships had not shown up yet. Eames wanted to tell Bishop that Sledge had been at her place the night before but was gone when she woke up. She didn't remember him leaving. Eames wanted to tell, but thought the fewer people who knew about her and Edward, the better.
"So, what time did he leave your place?" Bishop asked.
"What! Lynn, what makes you think he was at my place? For heaven's sake."
"Oh, come on, Alex. Everyone knows you and Edward are doing it. Get real."
Eames was stunned. They had been so careful. She and Edward made sure they gave no indication that anything was between them. No looks, little chats, nothing. Even after hours, they went to dinner at out of the way places. They never drove in together. No one knew. She was sure of it.
Eames looked hard at her colleague. "Ok, how did you know?" she asked.
Bishop looked back, took a sip of coffee and said, "I didn't, till now." She smiled and turned to walk away.
"Lynn, don't you dare leave. Get back here, you rat!"
Bishop smiled, waved over her shoulder and walked back to her desk.
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"Don't worry, now. It will all be fine. Understand? You just have a good day. Sell something. I'll take care of the other thing. Ok?" Jenese said looking lovingly at the younger man. Fuck this up you bastard and I'll do to you what I did to that faggot painter, he thought.
Canvettelli looked at the handsome man reassuring him and thought I am so lucky to have him. He'll take care of me.
They kissed lightly and Jenese left the gallery.
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Gleason woke slowly; she stretched, rolled onto her right side, and slid her hand over the empty sheet beside her. He's already gone to work, she thought lazily. She closed her eyes again and then realized where she was. She rose up on her right elbow and looked at the open bed next to her. What am I doing here without him? Her heart felt hollow. I need to call him. She sat up and suddenly felt sick. I need to eat something, she said to herself. I need to eat more, Bobby is right.
Gleason stood up, walked to the bathroom, she brushed her teeth and was nearly sick. She showered and dressed quickly. After tying up her hair, she slipped the room key into her pocket, opened the door, retrieved the paper from the floor and headed to the lift. She pressed the lobby button and rode down.
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Sledge debated whether to call Goren or not. Goddamn him, keeping me up all night. Let him rot.
The night before, Sledge had been pouring coffee into two mugs at Goren's place when Goren had come around the corner into the kitchen. Goren had dried off and was wearing light cotton green plaid pants and a tee shirt. He looked a wreck. Sledge handed him a mug and they both sat at the table. Neither said anything for a long time.
Finally, Bobby said thanks and Sledge nodded.
"You going to be ok?" Sledge asked.
"My life is so fucked up," Goren replied sadly.
Sledge was surprised by this. Goren was the golden boy. Weird as hell, but admired by the brass, adored by most of the women in the office, loved by Sledge's own woman – Goren's partner. Goren had a beautiful, intelligent woman to love him. Well, except for that last part, Gleason leaving him, what was so bad?
"What do you mean?" Sledge asked.
Goren spilled everything. He went on nonstop about how he didn't understand what had happened between him and Gleason. He didn't understand why the anger management classes hadn't worked, why the post-trauma counseling hadn't worked, why he was so angry all the time, why he still smoked when he had quit seven years ago, why he was drinking too much too often. Sledge was afraid Goren was going to start to cry. By comparison, Sledge thought his own life looked pretty damned good.
"Look, man, maybe you need to talk to some one else. Sometimes it takes more time or a different therapist."
Bobby finished his coffee and said nothing else.
"Look, I'm going to get going. Why don't you stay home tomorrow? Sleep this off and get your head on straight. I'll let Eames know about tonight. She'll square it with Deakins." They both stood.
Bobby still said nothing. He looked at the other man and said, "Thanks for coming to get me. For, you know, for, for . . ." He started to shuffle and go red.
Sledge bailed him, "Yeah, sure, forget it." He turned and left.
Sledge had caught a cab back to his car in front of Nixon's, paid the driver and got a receipt. He sat in his car, filled out the receipt complete with a huge tip, slipped it in with the bar receipt and drove to his place.
Should I call the bastard? Nah, let him rot.
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Gleason crossed the lobby to the small open restaurant opposite the front desk. She chose a single table on the far left, in front of a window. She set her newspaper on the table and sat. The server approached and Gleason asked for hot water, two chamomile tea bags and a large orange juice. "I'll have the cold buffet, please."
The cold table held every thing one could want for a healthy breakfast. The hot bar to the right held traditional hot American breakfast food. She took a plate and traveled the cold table. For the first time in a long time, she was famished.
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"Where is he?" Deakins asked nodding to Bobby's desk.
"Got me," Eames answered.
"It's not like him to not call."
"I know. Things are really off kilter for him right now. Maybe he needs more time, or more counseling."
"Yeah, so you said yesterday. What have you got on the painting shipment and murder?"
"Well, I thought I'd go back and re-interview the gallery owner; without Goren, you know. Then, when the ME's report comes in on the artist, I want to look at those details. I also want to talk with the buyer, and the broker in St. Louis who arranged the sale. Bobby was working up a list of known associates of the artist and the gallery owner. I don't know where he is with that."
"Sounds good. Let me know when Goren gets here. I want to talk with him about what you and I talked about." Deakins turned and headed for Bishop's desk.
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Bobby dressed in khakis and a white shirt, open at the neck. He seriously thought about staying home. But he knew that would solve nothing. He had to get to work, immerse himself in something to keep from thinking.
His head pounded. Why did I do that last night? Christ, I know better than that. He had a few pain pills left over from his broken knuckles. He took one and put the bottle in his pants pocket.
He slipped on his jacket and headed out.
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"Lynn, I'd like to talk with you and Sledge in my office. Find him and head over." Deakins turned to return to his office.
"Uh, Captain, he isn't in yet."
Deakins turned back and said, "What? Where is he?" What's going on with the men in this department?
"I don't know. He hasn't called."
"Well, call him. Find out where he is and tell him to get his butt in here. Let me know what you find out."
Deakins was more than a little pissed. Jesus, this department is falling apart, he said to himself.
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Jenese spoke quietly into the phone, "I'm telling you, nothing went wrong. . . . The police are idiots. They won't be back to talk to Canvettelli any time soon. I guess one of them got up in his face and Canvettelli wants to bring harassment charges against the department. . . .
"No, there is nothing to worry about; the insurance claim will be processed in two or three weeks. It will all be over then. Don't worry. . . . I need you to start thinking about the work that ceramicist in Baltimore does. See if it's something that might be of interest to us. . . . Right." I'm working with a bunch of fucking idiots, he thought to himself.
"And, I need you to start thinking about what you want me to do to you this weekend. Ok? Uh huh. Good, sounds good."
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"I'm in the deck, on my way up. Is Goren in yet?" Bishop had called Sledge's cell after Deakins left.
"No. How did you know he wasn't here yet?"
"Son of a bitch, he is taking today off. Never mind. I'll be there in five."
Bishop hung up and thought this is the weirdest thing yet.
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Gleason enjoyed the fruit, the English muffin, the yogurt, the tea. Oh, it was good. It is so nice, sitting here, reading the paper, and watching the few people walk by. It is so nice.
Suddenly, for the second time that morning, she missed Bobby. She imagined him sitting across from her, reaching for her hand. Smiling at her. Knowing they would go upstairs and make love. She felt her eyes fill. Her heart filled. She needed to call him. Hear his voice. Let him know she was all right. Gleason signed the tab, gathered her paper and headed for the lifts.
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Bobby met Sledge waiting for the elevator in the parking deck. They nodded but said nothing.
They rode to the eleventh floor in silence. They turned the corner together and Bobby headed to his desk and Sledge to his.
Bobby sat, flipped open his portfolio and then flipped through the pink message slips. He set those aside, picked up the phone and dialed. He listened to it ring on the other end, got no answer and hung up. He stood and took his cup to the coffee room. The pot was almost empty.
Before he could stop it, the hot rush of anger screamed through him and he slammed his cup on the edge of the counter, smashing it into a thousand pieces. He shut his eyes and leaned on the counter edge, breathing deeply.
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"Dr. Wintermantle, Dr. Wintermantle!"
Gleason jerked to a halt. Her head snapped up, breath stopped in her throat.
"How are you? It is so good to see you again."
Gleason looked up, toward the voice. "Antonio! Oh, oh Antonio." Relief was obvious in her posture and voice. She walked over to the registration desk and extended her hand. "Antonio, it is good to see you again. I was wondering if you were still here. I am surprised you remember me."
Antonio Palermo was a desk clerk unlike any other. On her last visit, he personally saw to everything Gleason wanted, needed and didn't even know she wanted or needed. Last year, Antonio had walked to the Wolfgang Puck restaurant across the street and down the block for her. He picked up a take away order of Atlantic Salmon Oriental Style with a mushroom/soy sauce, but without the soy sauce. Antonio had offered, insisted, to go and get it for her since it was raining.
"I am so happy to have you return here," he sounded genuinely pleased to see Gleason. "You let me know if you need or want anything, understand?"
"Yes, of course, Antonio. Thank you, thank you." Gleason smiled and continued round the corner to the lift.
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Sledge heard the crash, stood and headed for the coffee room. Jesus Christ, he has not been here five minutes.
Sledge saw Bobby leaning on the edge of the counter. He stepped into the small room and shut the door.
"Hey man, you ok?" he asked.
Bobby pushed off the edge and turned to look for a broom and dustpan. He saw one leaning against the wall behind the closed door. He reached for it and Sledge stepped aside.
"Look, Goren, you have got to do something about yourself before you get suspended, reassigned, or kicked back to uniform for good."
Bobby stopped, turned and looked at Sledge, "Tell me what to do."
"Ok, well, let me talk to Deakins. Ok? They have to have a program in place for situations like this. Man, you can't be the first to feel like this. Do you want me to talk with the Captain? I will if you want me to."
Bobby finished sweeping up the mess of broken china, dumped the pan into the waste bin and returned the broom and pan to behind the door. He looked at the other man and said, "Why are you doing this? Why did you come for me last night, stay with me, and sober me up? Why are you here now, being so nice? Huh?"
Sledge looked at Goren and felt the old hatred rise up again. "Fuck you." And he walked out.
Bobby wiped his face with both hands and turned to make a fresh pot of coffee.
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Eames heard the crash and watched Sledge head for the coffee room. She watched Edward shut the door, stared at it, and then watched him leave. He didn't look too happy. She rose and crossed to the coffee room. Bobby stood watching the dark liquid dribble into the pot.
"Hey," she said standing beside him.
He glanced at her, but said nothing.
"Bobby, Deakins said he wanted to talk with you when you got in."
He still said nothing.
"Bobby –,"
"Ok. Ok, for chrissakes. I'll go see Deakins. Get off my back, will you?"
Eames felt sick to her stomach. She turned and walked back to her desk.
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Jenese drove to the shipping office and asked if Navinsky was around.
"He's still on his run," the foreman answered. "He's due back sometime after six. Want me to give him a message?"
"No. Thanks, I'll catch him another time."
Goddamn prick, Jenese thought, walking back to his car, Navinsky was supposed to bring those paintings first thing this morning. Well, he'd better have them tonight when I see him.
"Goren, in my office," Deakins called when he saw Bobby leaving the coffee room.
Shit, Bobby thought.
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"Sit down, detective," Deakins said to Bobby.
Deakins looked at Goren sitting slouched in the chair. I don't want to lose this man, he told himself. I need to do whatever it takes to get him well. Dear God, don't let this be the beginning of his mother's illness.
"What's going on, Bobby?"
Bobby said nothing. He closed his eyes and shook his head.
"I need to know what's wrong so I can work to make it right. Are you feeling ok?"
Bobby slouched further back in the chair with his elbows on the chair arms. He tented the fingers of his hands in front of his lips.
"How's Gleason? Is she ok?"
Bobby closed his eyes and turned his head to the left as though he'd been slapped.
"Bobby, you have to tell me what's going on." Deakins watched Bobby struggle. He saw Bobby wanting to say something.
Silence. Then, finally, "I, I don't know what's wrong. Nothing is . . . nothing is the way it should be. Nothing is like it was before. I don't know what to do to make it like it was before. I want it like it was before. How do I do that? How do I make it good again? What do I do? Tell me what to do." His voice quivered.
Deakins saw his best detective spiral down into desperate . . . what? . . . loneliness, fear? He didn't know what to say. Deakins felt like a father trying to help a frantic, frightened son.
"Bobby, I want you to take some more time off. I want the department to get you someone to talk with. You and Gleason, both; maybe together and separately. We can—"
"Gleason's gone."
"What?"
"She's gone. She left me."
"When, what happened?"