4.06 - Ninety Degrees
The degrees of the case get hotter and the paths twist and turn as our heroes try to find the answers!
Even when a case was handed to her on a silver platter, the solutions did not always come quickly. Gail buried her face in her hands and groaned. How the hell was she here? Sandy Paretti had claimed the stolen painting, the one that had been faked and faked, was actually hers. And the second, the fucking moment she realized Gail hadn't known that, she clammed up.
Which was how and why Gail found herself far too awake in the middle of the night, trying to make sense of anything.
"Honey, its one in the morning," said Holly, sleepy and tolerant, but barely so. She also scared the shit out of Gail.
"Jesus!" Gail pushed a hand against her chest, trying to slow its beat. "I'm sorry."
Her wife gave her a droll look. "Come to bed, you need sleep."
"I'll keep you up."
"The random 'fuck' every hour is doing a dandy job of that," countered Holly. Tired as she was, the faintest hint of 'and you're being an inconsiderate asshole' slipped into Holly's tone.
Gail winced. "I'm sorry, Holly."
"I know." Holly pushed an errant lock of hair away from her face. Then she spoke reflectivity. "It's been a long time since you got so wrapped up in a case, honey."
It had. "Not since my serial rapist," said Gail grimly.
Four college students were attacked, male and female, before the school thought to do much about it. All the years of advancement they made, and people still wanted to pretend crime was just a nothing thing. Kids being kids. Ugh. It had soured Gail's stomach for weeks on end. Finally she'd resorted to a method she despised; bait.
Not herself, of course. At forty-two she had still been stunning but long in the tooth to play a college ingenue. And too classy, really. The Elaine Peck Classical School for Truculent Blondes had seen to that. But sending a young cop, all of twenty and change, into the situation had been traumatic for Gail.
Two panic attacks in her office and a month of sleepless nights were her just reward for the arrest of a star college gymnast. Sick fuck. She'd gone to the asshole's trial and talked about how the privileges of his success and pseudo fame had led him to believe he could take whatever he wanted. Gail believed a lesson should be made.
Asshat nearly got off with a slap on the wrist.
Stupid system.
"This is just a theft over and a cover up, honey," said Holly gently.
Gail bristled. Intellectually she knew Holly was totally right. This was a stupid case to get wrought up over. Art was rich people shit and, really, didn't matter in the long run. As much as Gail loved it, classical art was the creation of the poor for the consumption of the masses and as deplorable as the constant pillaging of genius was to her and anyone with a heart, it was impossible to change the past.
And yet, Gail felt this case tug at her. Maybe it was knowing the history of the art and artists and the levels of involvement of her family and the ... ugh. She covered her face. It was more than 'just' her family and her name. It was the absolute gall of the whole fucking mess.
"I don't like criminals who are smarter than I am," she told Holly in a flash of self awareness.
"While our therapist would be proud of that assessment, honey, I want to sleep. With you in our bed."
"I'm going to toss and turn," muttered Gail, guilty. She knew Holly slept better with her in the bed, too.
There was a creak of the floor boards, a shush of bare feet on the rug, and then a hand ran through her hair. "I am aware I married an obsessive woman, Gail," said Holly gently.
"Sorry."
"Want to talk it out?"
Gail snorted and removed her hands from her face. She looked up at her wife. "Never once in the history of ever have I wanted to talk shit out."
Her wife was smiling. Holly closed the laptop and pushed it back, sitting to take its place. "Tell me where you're stuck," she instructed and crossed her legs at the ankles.
Placing her hands on Holly's knees, Gail smiled. It wasn't a happy smile. It was the smile of understanding. She had a great wife who was willing to lose sleep to help get Gail out of her own head. "Sandy stole the painting. Bought. Whatever, illegally acquired via black market shit."
Holly arched her eyebrows. "Which one?"
"The one that was insured." Gail absently rubbed her hands on Holly's thighs. "The Adriaen van de Velde landscape. I've started digging into the rabbit hole and the insurance company is looking at everything, every case Sandy's been involved in, because we— I suspect she has been cherry picking her favorite art and stealing it from investors."
"Clever," allowed Holly.
"Right?"
"She bought it?"
"Kind of. She didn't make the Hoffmans, she stole their fake identity."
Holly made a face. "To steal their painting?"
"Yup! And at first I thought she swapped it for the fake. Except she's clever. Smarter than that. She'd swap it for a fake of the original. Not a fake Vermeer. And frankly if a fake was that good, I'd hang it up myself." Gail paused. "Did you know Sherlock Holmes was related to Vermeer on his mother's side?"
Holly shook her head. "I did not know he'd pierced the fourth wall and invaded our reality. But I also didn't know you wanted to hang up classical art. Should we?"
"We could raid Mom's storage. She has a lot of weird shit, including a piece called Boulangerie, which was made by my great grandmother while drunk."
"Miranda? That sounds like an adventure story for later. Please continue."
Gail smiled. "Anyway. She was as shocked as anyone when that Vermeer popped out, according to the kid."
Miffed, Holly pointed out, "I said so too."
"Yes but she was trained by Elaine on reading people."
"Fine." Holly huffed and crossed her arms.
"Also Sandy was very hopeful that we'd found her painting. Ergo, she didn't do it. But then that gets me back to who the fucking hell made the Hoffman aliases. Which is driving me nuts."
"What do you know so far?"
"The name shows up over ninety years ago." When Holly's eyebrows jumped, Gail nodded grimly. "I know, right? Predates Sandy's existence, let alone her life in crime."
"Clearly not her. Unless she has a TARDIS," said Holly in her best deadpan.
Gail ignored the joke. "And not an inherited alias either. I think it was Nazis, escaping the war, but the records are a bit of a mess."
Her wife pursed her lips. "Really? Nazis kept distressingly meticulous records."
"This was on the receiving end." Gail gestured to indicate Canada. "A lot of people scammed IDs when they came in. Some intentional, some not. A lot of names got changed. Again, some intentional, some not."
"True. That's a lot of background information."
"Right? So you'd think I have more than just a general theory and zilch proof."
"Theorize away, my dear."
Gail paused and looked at Holly for a long moment. Long enough that the doctor tilted her head to the side and smiled that curious, quirky, beautiful smile. For the life of her, Gail couldn't think of anyone with whom she could have such an open and rambling conversation with. Before, any time Gail had a confusing theory about a case, it was always dismissed or pushed aside. She was never as good a cop as Steven, so why would anyone listen to her?
Early on, Gail learned to keep her thoughts to herself. Other rookies would steal her accolades, the Peck family would denigrate her accomplishments. People would laugh at the poor little rich girl having grandiose ideas. Delusions.
And then Holly listened to her. The first time Gail had a rambling theory, ages and eons ago when the Three Rivers gang was fresh in everyone's mind, Holly listened. Dr. Holly Stewart listened to a nobody blue collar uniformed officer with a crazy ass theory about ambulances.
Today Holly listened to her again.
It meant so, so much to Gail to have that implicit trust from Holly. That there was a person who believed in her, from the moment they met practically. There never was a moment that Holly didn't look at Gail and listen to her ideas and follow her down the path to some kind of an answer. Right or wrong.
She looked into the beautiful brown eyes and felt herself fall like she did so many times before. And Gail smiled. "Have I mentioned how much I adore you, Holly?"
"Not today, but it's only one." Holly flicked her gaze to the wall. "One thirty."
"Point taken," said Gail, chagrined. "Come on. Let's go to bed."
"Oh, ho no. Leaving me on the cliff hanger? I want to hear your theory."
Gail felt her heart thud and her body warm. No one but Holly ever always wanted to hear the theory. "Sandy planned to steal the painting. She found out the Hoffmans were phonies, so she stole the Hoffman fake name instead and kept watch so she could find them."
Holly paused and then asked, "Why? Why not just take the painting and get away scott free?"
"Retribution. Hard to hide from someone you don't know. Can't see them coming."
"Ah." Holly nodded, seriously. Understanding. "Of course. She was waiting out the fake Hoffmans, believing the painting was real, and the break in tipped her hand. Of course, the real painting being missing was a shock, and she had to stick around. But how does your bank robber fit into all this?"
"Walter and his mysterious sister Louise? Dunno. I'm incredibly upset I've yet to hook actual Nazis into this either."
Holly leaned in and kissed Gail softly. "I thought you were upset Tristan didn't fake his death."
"And because Sandy didn't kill real-Sandy and steal her life." Gail pouted and stood up. "Why couldn't it be obvious crime?"
Hopping off the desk, Holly took one of Gail's hands. "The course of true crime never did run smooth. Let's go to bed."
With a deep sigh, Gail followed Holly out. "Hey, Holly?" When her wife turned, Gail smiled shyly. "Thank you."
The brunette flushed. "You're welcome, honey."
Vivian read down the report from the lab absently. She was finding it hard to concentrate on the results, in part because she knew what they were and it was really just confirmation, but also because she was exhausted.
And she couldn't sleep.
Stupid insomnia.
Having worked a regular shift that morning, Vivian had run into the unexpected near the middle of her day. Andy had set them up to flag down traffic violations and speed traps, a stupid but easy way to bump numbers, so Vivian had taken Avery Goff out to teach him how it worked. After two years he was still an idiot.
Originally, Gail thought he might be on the take, given that he acted suspicious as hell. It turned out that he idealized maverick cops who worked undercover, and emulated what he saw on TV. Chloe had laughed so hard when she'd found out. That just evolved into a rookie with his tie cut who still had to be casually supervised by an experienced officer.
That day it had been Vivian, who accidentally showed off a Peck talent by catching the license plate of a speeding car. Goff had followed her around like a fucking puppy and asked her out at after lunch. Once Rich stopped laughing at the kid, he pulled him aside and the last thing Vivian heard was Rich explaining that when two women dug each other a lot, they didn't want dudes in the mix.
She might have hoped that would be it. No, no, instead she swapped with Rich and worked with Jenny, and they found an underage kid in his step-mom's beemer, speeding. The paperwork had only gotten weirder when Vivian saw he was a regular at the LGBT community youth centre that Sophie's friend Katie ran. She ended up spending the rest of her shift trying to get him on lesser charges.
That hadn't worked, and Nick admonished her. So had Chloe, who was spending more time on the floor. They both thought that letting kids suffer for their fuck ups was important. Which meant no favorites. Not even for people you connected to.
It was one of those days where Vivian just felt like she was always going to be a rookie, no matter what she did. And as always, she got way too up in her head. Which resulted in insomnia.
"You know," said Christian as he walked into the apartment. "There's a hot chick in your bedroom."
Vivian looked up, startled, heart racing, and glared. "What the hell are you doing home so late?"
"Paperwork. I arrested a pregnant woman who gave birth in the precinct."
"Eww." Vivian closed her tablet. "So now you're just giving random advice?"
"I'm saying it's three in the morning and you have a girlfriend in your actual bed, who would probably like it if you were there."
Hunching her shoulders, Vivian scowled. "I can't sleep."
Christian glared at her. "I get that. You're my pet insomniac. And you have a girlfriend."
"Tossing and turning all night. I don't want to keep her up. She's only got two days off."
"Yeah, and she should spend them with you, moron." Christian rolled his eyes. "You're so stubborn."
"Go shower and crash, C."
He lingered a moment but gave up and went into his room.
Vivian would have much rather been in bed with Jamie at that moment. Even just lying there with her girlfriend was better than lying in that bed alone, which she'd been doing for four nights. Jamie's schedule was a little insane, and near impossible to plan anything around when matched with Vivian's. It was just weird. But if Vivian went in there now, she'd toss and turn and wake Jamie up, and given Jamie's job, that was a terrible idea. Better to read some tedium until her brain shut up.
The hallway light flicked on.
"Crap, I thought he was joking," said Jamie, behind a yawn. She shuffled into the living room and flopped onto the couch. "What's in your noggin, Peck?"
Vivian sighed. "Jamie, go back to sleep."
"Nope. The mysterious text of 'it's three am, do you know where your lesbian is' was amusing and now I'm awake."
She made a note to kill Christian later. Reluctantly, Vivian confessed, "I just can't sleep."
Jamie looked up at her curiously. "What kind of can't sleep?"
"Huh?"
"There are a lot of can't sleeps. Like a case was too close to home, or nightmares, or whatever. So which?"
Vivian chewed her lip. "Overthinking everything."
"Ah. The Vivian Special." Jamie patted Vivian's leg and got up. "Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"A run."
"Uh. It's three AM. Lunatics are out there."
Jamie smiled. "I know. And I will have my very own true blue copper, packing heat, to protect me."
Narrowing her eyes, Vivian allowed herself to be hustled into a fucking early run down to the park, along the regular routes, and then, finally, an hour later, back to home.
The whole run was quiet though. Jamie didn't ask questions, she didn't poke or prod. She set a brutal pace of course, but that was weirdly helpful. Somewhere between one footstep and another, Vivian felt herself calm, her mind quiet. It was all okay. The nagging thought about how she was a terrible cop, how she was prone to favors, faded away. The doubt and insecurity seemed to be meaningless.
After all, Jamie trusted her. Her moms trusted her.
As they cooled down, circling their block, Vivian asked. "Am I a good cop?"
"What I've seen, yeah," said Jamie. She raised her arms over her head. "Is that what's bugging you?"
"A little. I got called out at work."
"And you got stuck thinking about what it meant and ended up all up in your head?" Jamie sighed. "Viv. Why would you be worried about that? Being a good cop?"
Vivian slowed her pace. "We never talked about Pecks, did we?"
Her girlfriend blinked. "Not really. I know about them from my dad mostly, and he's not a super fan. There are a million of them, though, so it's gonna run the gamut."
"Were."
"Huh?"
"There were a million. Not so much now."
"Not a lot of kids?"
"Gail routed 'em."
Jamie froze. "Sorry... Gail?"
Vivian sighed. They were at the start of a complicated conversation. "So. Pecks have historically been cops in Toronto for as long as Toronto has had cops. And they kind of got into positions of power over time. Some of them loved power too much and, y'know, shit happened."
"That's all pretty normal," pointed out Jamie, nervously.
"Yeah, but the name became synonymous with power and excellence. Gail... Gail has a lot of screwy self-esteem issues from them. She's super hard on herself all the time, doesn't expect people to have her back, thinks they're more likely to be out to get her."
Jamie looked thoughtful. "Did you inherit that?"
Morose, Vivian nodded. "For a different reason, but yeah. She was always fighting against her name, and I'm always trying to ... be worthy of it. Of Gail."
"Because she routed the crooked Pecks?"
"When I was sixteen. She and Frank, Olivia's dad, ran 'em all out of town." Two, she ran out of town. Everyone else quietly stepped down. But that was semantics.
Her girlfriend looked thoughtful. "Why did they think Gail wasn't ... I don't know. Good enough?"
"Because she's weird. She's super smart and kinda off beat and she hates people. She doesn't get people, not a lot of empathy."
Jamie scoffed. "She has a fuckton of empathy, Viv. She's constantly overloaded because she gives a shit. So she pushes everyone away because it's too much."
Vivian stared. Jamie had barely known Gail two years, and that was being generous. To think that Jamie had read Gail so well was positively mind blowing. And then Vivian realized, with a little trepidation, that it meant Jamie could probably read Vivian like a book.
The firefighter smiled and reached up, cupping Vivian's chin. "Hey, copper? I like both of you. I mean, I like you a little more. But I like your family." Standing on her tiptoes, Jamie kissed Vivian softly. "You're scared of people. I get that. So's Gail. You're a lot alike. Of course you want to be like her, and of course you panic when you think you aren't living up to her. Or your image of her. That's normal."
"Yeah?" Vivian was doubtful. Normal was never her watchword.
"Yeah. I promise." Tan fingers caught her own, lacing through them. "Come on. Let's go home, shower, eat something, sleep... Please tell me you're off today?"
"Just on call in case something boom related happens."
"Good." Jamie tugged Vivian by the hand, up into the old church lofts they called home. "You know Gail would never be disappointed by you. Right? Even if you stopped being a cop."
Vivian nodded. "I know. I don't think I will though. Stop being a cop. It's... It's the second place I ever felt like I belonged."
"Not a lot of those places, huh?"
"No," she admitted sadly. "But..." Vivian took a deep breath. She felt the words in her head and heart. She could say them. Her voice was quiet, and she felt horribly embarrassed. "You're the third."
Jamie paused and stopped trying to fish her keys out from her pocket. Slowly she looked up at Vivian, her brown eyes wide and shining. A smile spread across Jamie's face, brilliant and luminous. A flush raced up her neck. Then, shyly, she stood up on her tip-toes and kissed Vivian warmly. The kind of kiss that made Vivian tingle. Not sexual, just full of meaning and good things. Love? Was that it?
She still wasn't sure. Maybe Vivian would always be dancing on the edge of that. But she knew the look on Jamie's face just then was happiness.
It was a start.
Closing cases was supposed to feel good. But as Holly signed off what she hoped was the last paper in the Haan case, she just felt unease. The case had gone on so long and had so many twists and turns, it was mind boggling. How could a hundred and fifty years of tragedy be summed up and collected into one, ridiculously large, case file.
Holly sighed and got up, taking the physical files off her shelves. She should put the case away. Clear the space on her shelves for a new case to obsess over.
Except...
As she put the cases away, Holly felt a lack of desire to fill in the space. At least not with another case. She looked at the empty shelf and thought that now, finally, she had a job well done.
Not that she didn't have other cases still there, but this one was over and there was no void in her heart to fill with another. She was done with shoring up her soul with crime. Holly was nearing the end of a career she loved, even now, but yes. This was the time to start stepping back.
The choice to resign as Ontario's ME was right. It was perfect. It felt like a relief to be done and it energized Holly. She had done amazing things, worked in amazing ways, touched millions of lives. And she wasn't done yet, but she was ready for something else. Something slower.
Holly had an itch now, to write about something. And she would soon have the time to do it.
That empty space spoke to her in a new way.
She could write a book. About solving this crime.
That would be fun. To show everyone, the world, how crime was solved. How she'd solved crime. Holly closed the box and picked up a legal pad, sketching out the very bones of the idea. The idea for what could be the next great work of her life.
In between the rest of her work, Holly continued to scribble ideas for the structure of the book. How she'd break down the chapters, what could be omitted, what had to be there. It took up her free time through the day, but by the time she left for home, Holly felt like she had the greatest idea. That this would work.
Of course she'd have to talk to the Crowne's office about it, but that could come later. The Mounties (at least Marcel) would be for it. John would. She might have to rename people, unless it was like Helter Skelter. This case was nowhere near as sensationalistic as the Manson case, though. Not much was.
"You are so distracted," said Gail as Holly walked into the house.
"I'm afraid to ask why you said that..."
"I texted you four times."
Holly blinked and pulled her phone out. Silent. "I turned it to mute."
"I noticed." Gail looked amused and waved a hand. "Go put your shit away. I'm making skirt steak."
"Thanks." Holly checked her messages and found Gail's four texts, all about dinner plans. The last one informed her that dinner would be skirt steak, roast vegetables, and Holly could make her own damn salad.
Ah. Yeah, that was Gail alright. Holly grinned. She jotted down a couple more notes and then came back, free of laptop, phone, and coat.
"Sorry," she told Gail as she washed her hands in the kitchen sink. "I'll make a beet salad."
"Ooh that sounds nice. I think we have some leftover caramelized onions. They should still be good. Mix that in with ... arugula and goat cheese?"
Holly eyed her wife. "One day you're going to have to let people know you actually like vegetables."
"I'd sooner sleep with Nick again," countered Gail.
They lapsed into comfortable silence, making the food. It let Holly drift her mind back to what she was planning with her book. As soon as she'd solidified the idea in her mind, everything began to unfold. She could talk about the part where she helped interrogate, but she'd have to set that up with a bit about the arrest. Would that work as second hand? Maybe she should reread some of Gail's true crime novels for a better idea.
"Hey, honey? What's the best true crime book for modern forensics?"
"Henry Meechum's Forever Forest. About the man with his throat slit that turned out to be the guy who shot the Newfie Lieutenant Governor. He goes into the trace evidence, of course, but also ragged edge from the knife cut and the metal, and... it's on the third shelf of the red bookcase in the hallway." Gail glanced at Holly out of the corner of her eye.
"Thanks. I'll grab that later." Holly beamed. Gail always know those answers. It was one of the amazing things Holly had learned about her wife. She read an incredible amount of true crime and crime solving texts. Not just novels of history but actual historical tomes. Gail actually studied crime.
"Am I going to find out the cause of this obsession?" Gail sounded amused and a little frustrated.
Holly flushed. Perhaps she should have said something. Right. "Uh. Well. I filed the last of the Haan case. Cleared off my shelf."
"Is it all saved to the cloud now?"
"Yes, my poor intern." Once they'd found the history of the crimes, Holly had set that year's intern the unenviable task of copying all the data to the massive forensic database.
Gail nodded. That's what interns are for, Doc!"
"I know. I hated that stuff at his age. Why are you so good at it?" Because Gail could file paperwork like no ones business.
"I spent a summer interning. It was that or talking to my mother," mused Gail. "So do you have a new case to fill the void in your shelves?"
Holly bit her lip. "Funny you should say that. I was thinking... I don't want to have another cold case suck my heart like that. Not for a while."
"I didn't know that was an option."
"Probably not, but I thought I'd follow Mom's footsteps."
Her wife paused, putting the steak on their plates. A heartbeat passed. Then two. "A book?"
God, how she loved how quick Gail was. Holly felt her heart swell. She leaned in and caught Gail by surprise, kissing her. "You know, I love your mind, Gail."
Grinning toothily, Gail replied in her usual egotistical manner. "My third best aspect."
Holly smirked. "Your eyes and your boobs?"
"Body and sarcasm, but sure."
"Yes, a book."
"About the Haans. That sounds cool." Gail picked up the plates. "Beer us?"
"Domestic or ...?"
"That dark, chocolate brew? The one Dov got us."
Holly collected the drinks and followed Gail to the couch. "How are he and Chloe doing?"
"Ugh. Badly. I have never met people more in love and more stupid than them. Except maybe McNally." She shook her head. "He's just an ass about her career, making her feel like them not catching Chris being non-binary was because she's undercover a lot."
It was a stark opposite of how Gail had encouraged Holly so much to excel and reach higher in her career. Even though Holly's double load of city and Province had been difficult, they never let it destroy their relationship. They talked, constantly, about the work and the strain and the stress. They let the other know how they felt. And they kept working hard, making time for them.
"Thank you for not being like Dov."
Gail snorted. "Besides actually understanding what our work entails, I find your success incredibly sexy. Hot." Gail leered, her stormy blue eyes twinkling.
The imp. Holly smiled and kissed her again. "It does make things easier."
"Are you looking forward to partial retirement?"
"I'll still have a full time job," sassed Holly, and she took a bite of the steak. "Oh my god, this is so good."
"Still answer to Gail."
Holly rolled her eyes, but the book slipped to the back part of her brain, as it should. Instead, her fore-brain thought about how much Gail supported her. Gail always expected Holly to follow her passion and to be the top of her chosen fields. Settling was not a concept Gail was familiar or accepting off, not when it came to a career. She wanted everyone to know how smart Holly was, and yet also she wanted Holly to know how awesome she herself was.
Constantly seeing herself reflected in the mirror of Gail's eyes was a revelation. It was also a terrifying heavy burden. The expectations of Pecks had, slowly but surely, settled atop Holly's shoulders, like the sky upon Atlas. It was incumbent on Holly to not just succeed but to excel.
She leaned into Gail and sighed a little. Her wife absently wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. "I think a book is a great idea. Something to do and not be spending hours and years on feeling like time was pressuring you." Gail pressed her cheek to Holly's forehead. "Lily would totally approve."
"Yeah, I think so too."
While Lily had provided nearly unflagging support of Holly's career, eventually, it was not her mother whom Holly thought of as they got ready for bed.
Holly watched Gail go through her habitual evening ritual. The gun and badge had been locked away hours ago, but Gail still went to double check on the locker. She stepped on the loose floorboard outside of Vivian's room. Always. Even though Gail was an incredible detective, she always stepped on that spot and it always creaked.
"Creeper," said Gail as she armed the house alarm system. "Do you just linger in hallways watching beautiful women?"
"Just the one and the one." Holly smiled and followed Gail into the bedroom, flipping the lights off. "I hate that alarm system."
"I know."
They'd not had one until Gail had been undercover to find the anti-royalists. The day after Gail got home, she had it installed, explaining that there was a possibility of retribution. Thirteen years later, almost fourteen now, it was normal and Holly still hated it with all her heart. It reminded her of how much Gail put others before herself.
"It's weird. We still get Christmas cards from the king." Holly took off her shirt and tossed it into the hamper.
"He's pretty cool." Gail stretched. "Grab the first shower. I'm stiff as fuck."
Opportunity knocked. "How about you go first and I'll give you a back rub?"
Gail exhaled loudly. "I'm taking you up on that, Stewart."
"Just drop your clothes, I'll get them."
"God I love you." And Gail did just drop her clothes on the floor before going into the shower. She was moving stiffly as she got under he spray.
Neither of them were kids anymore. While Gail was still incredibly flexible and limber, age was catching up to her as much as it had caught up to Holly. As she put the clothes away, Holly watched Gail rotate her shoulder a few times. Hadn't Gail already gone to the range twice that week? Holly sniffed Gail's shirt. It smelled like guns.
"Hey, honey. Did you go to the range today?"
"Yeah," shouted Gail over the water. "My recert is coming up."
Aha. Holly dug out the oil recommended by Celery for muscle relaxing. It was different than the scent they used for Holly's back. That was a gentle smell, crisp and cool and clean. By contrast, the one for Gail was citrus. Holly loved the way it wafted up when she rubbed it into Gail's skin.
The smell of Gail was intoxicatingly seductive. The attitude, yes, and the beauty had caught Holly's eye, but it was the smell that drew her in. The night in the coat closet, sitting side by side, all Holly could smell was Gail and her perfume, and it resonated. Gail just smelled perfect.
When they'd finally slept together, Holly remembered nestling into Gail's shoulder and breathing in the smell. Sharp and tangy, just like Gail's humor, it captivated Holly's mind.
As a doctor, she understood the reasons why Gail's scent attracted her. MHC (Major Histocompatibility Complex) was a part of the immune system. It was humankind's natural scenting system, and helped a person find the best partner for advantages (genetically speaking). Anytime someone had an MHC that was dissimilar, they smelled better because they had the missing immunities.
Gail smelled delicious most of the time (no one's sweat was always attractive, not even Gail's). While it was anatomically impossible, Holly's body wanted to breed with Gail's and produce children with more genetic diversity. Oh, hormones. They did what they did and ignored reality sometimes.
"Hey, what's up your head now?" Gail was toweling her hair with her left hand.
"I was thinking how you smell."
Gail paused. "You're weird, Stewart."
Holly smiled and took the towel, rubbing it into Gail's hair. "I'll be back in a minute."
"I'll just sit here in my altogether."
Laughing, Holly hopped into the shower and washed herself off. She tied her damp hair into a lazy braid and came back to find Gail sitting, cross legged, on the bed, holding the oil bottle to her chest. "Warming it up?"
"I hate when it's cold."
She leaned in and kissed Gail softly. Gently pressing her lips to Gail's, Holly dissolved into her wife for a moment. When she leaned back, taking the oil bottle, Gail was smiling dopily. Holly kissed Gail's forehead and sat behind her, pouring oil into her hands, and massaging it into Gail's right shoulder.
"Oh my god, Holly." Gail moaned appreciatively and dropped her chin to her chest. "That feels so amazing."
"You need to remember to stretch more," Holly admonished as she put pressure on Gail's muscles.
"I know, I know."
"Relax a little, honey."
Gail lapsed into appreciative silence, moaning now and then to express her pleasure. It was uncomfortable, sometimes, to hear Gail like that. Or rather, it had been. Gail was often vocal about her feelings, and she'd expressed if a few times in public. Out loud. Now, Holly was so used to it that she felt it was normal. Gail was just noisy.
After getting Gail to relax her back and arm, Holly nudged her to lie down and propped Gail's right arm on her own shoulder. The blonde's eyes closed as Holly swept her hands up and down the arm.
"That feels so nice," mumbled Gail, her voice smothered in sleep.
"Good," said Holly. "You can fall asleep."
"Mmmm. No."
"No?"
"Naked girl holding my arm."
Holly laughed a little. She had wondered if Gail had noticed her own nudity. "I didn't want to get oil on my jammies."
"Suuuure," said Gail, drawling the word out.
Certain Gail's arm was limp, Holly laid it on the bed. "Get over yourself, Gail," she teased.
Her wife made a noise but didn't move when Holly got out of bed and washed the oils off her hands. Gail hadn't even moved an inch, still lying in the middle of their large bed, naked as a jay bird, smiling. Relaxed.
Holly scooted in from her side of the bed, Gail's left at that moment, and snuggled up. "Feel better?"
"Yeah." Gail's voice was wistful. "Much better."
"You'll rock your recertification."
"Probably." That reply came with a tense voice.
All those years and Gail still got nervous about Peck things. About shooting to prove she was still capable of being a cop. Nerves and doubts never fully went away. Holly tried not to let her own feelings show about that, her own nerves for Gail, and instead traced circles on Gail's pale skin.
The years showed themselves in different ways, but Gail was still amazing. Her skin was still so taut and perfect. Prone to burn, badly, Gail rarely if ever wore short sleeves or shorts out in the sun. Even at the cottage she used a lot of sunblock. She was very careful, and with good reason.
It provided an end result of some amazingly unblemished skin. The milky expanse looked even darker with Holly's hand atop it. Holly got as much sun as she could. She stayed brown enough, year round, to be clearly 'not white,' which is what happened with Mediterranean and Moorish genes.
Once, Vivian had asked if that meant Holly was brown like she was. Vivian was, clearly and genetically, part First People. They weren't quite sure where or why or how, only that someone had been removed from their lands as a baby and sent to school, came out with the name Alice, and married into the Greens. The genes had stuck through, and Vivian had grown into a melange of the things that made up her genetic structure.
But no, colloquially Holly was considered white because she wasn't African or Latinx. That lead, naturally, into discussions of physical anthropology and the less well known study of anthropometry. Ironically enough, Matty had taken a class in that as it was used to help design clothes. Who knew.
"Are you thinking anthropology thoughts?" Gail asked sleepily.
"Maybe." Holly sighed and pressed her face against Gail's left shoulder, catching a whiff of the scents. "Now I'm not."
Gail's felt like she laughed, but made no sound. "What are you thinking now?"
She could have replied. She could have told Gail that she was thinking about the addictive smell of the blonde. She could have explained that she was thinking about how Gail's skin felt under her hand, how the clean scent of the body and the pale skin reminded Holly that she was a lesbian. She could have said she was thinking about the first time she went down on Gail.
And instead, Holly sat up a little and kissed Gail's shoulder. Then her neck. Then her chin. As she reached Gail's lips, the blonde breathed out a quiet 'oh' and wrapped an arm around Holly, resting a hand at the base of Holly's spine. Holly smiled into the kiss and migrated down.
It would be a lie to say Holly didn't think a little about science. She did. She thought about the muscles and tendons and bones and all the parts that came together to make a person. She thought about how humans were, more or less, all put together the same way, but with such varied results.
Holly also thought about how much she knew about Gail's body in specific. She knew how it worked, what it liked, and what it loved. She knew where Gail was ticklish and where she would squirm a little and then sigh or groan with pleasure. She knew that spot on Gail's hip that was weirdly an erogenous zone. She knew where to kiss the inside of Gail's knee to get her leg to shift.
She knew Gail and Gail's body and she loved all that she knew. Holly catalogued and recorded, mentally, everything, every time with Gail. She wanted to brand it into her brain so deeply that she would never, could never forget. Holly wanted to know everything.
After all, she was a scientist at heart, and that's what they'd done since time began.
And Gail, who rarely trusted or gave up control out of fear, Gail gave that to her. Gail trusted her. Gail loved her. Gail believed in Holly and always, unflaggingly, cheered her on and supported her. Gail celebrated Holly, every aspect of her. Even the parts that weren't all that awesome.
Sometimes Holly felt like telling Gail how much she loved the crazy blonde wasn't enough. That the years of casual, mental abuse from the Pecks made it so Gail couldn't hear the love in the words, no matter what was said. And that was when, like that night, Holly knew the best way was to show her wife. Show Gail with a massage and a touch and, yes, show her with physical adoration, how much Holly did care.
That after all the years and the struggles and the work, Holly was still here. That Holly still chose Gail first. That Holly loved her.
As Gail, eventually, drifted off to sleep, snuggling Holly and holding on to the battered t-shirt Holly wore in bed, she sighed. A deep sigh from her toes.
"I do love you too, Holly," whispered Gail into the darkness.
The darkness was an easier place to say those things, Holly knew that. But she still delighted when Gail told her that in words.
"I know," she told Gail, and kissed her forehead.
And she did.
"Hey boss, got a minute?"
Gail looked up from the tragedy of budget reports to see the nervous face of Pedro Nuñez. "Yes, because I'm about to murder our accountants, and I think our chief ME wouldn't cover for me."
The young man smiled. "I might be able to cheer you up."
"Oh, god, yes. Please do."
"Remember how you couldn't tie in Nazis to all this?"
Blinking, Gail took off her reading glasses as she parsed Pedro's tone. He sounded so certain. "Close the door," she said in one of her more officious voices. The one her mother used.
Holding up his tablet, Pedro gestured at the wall. Gail nodded and saw a face appear on it. "'Meet Mr. Seymour Hoffman."
The name hit Gail like a hammer. "Hoffman?" She studied the man on her wall. The photo was the weird, grainy quality she'd come to expect from 1940s era pictures. It was dark and poorly lit, and ... dear god, it was a passport photo. From Austria. From 1941.
"Mr. Hoffman was a store owner. Sold things on the black market apparently. When Nazi Germany started making inroads in Austria, he hopped on a ship for Ellis Island, being Jewish. Wanted a better life for his kids."
"And ended up in Canada?"
"Actually he slipped and fell on board. He died. I bet Dr. Stewart would call it a cerebral hematoma, but the ship record just said he cracked his head open and died."
Wincing, Gail watched the record of death pop up on her wall. "So his kids?"
"Died in the war. The older son was ... The younger..." Pedro paused. "Well... The record says his youngest son, who was less than a year old, was killed. His older son was seven and was sent to Bełżec."
"The concentration camp?" When Pedro nodded, Gail sighed. "Well. That probably means someone shot him or bashed his brains out. That was 1941 though. No. '42. Sorry. It's not ... hm. It was pretty early in the war for that overt display of hostility."
"You're ... You know about all that?"
"It's important to know how horrible we, as humans, have been, so we don't repeat it. Bełżec was the first camps to be part of the "Final Solution" as it were."
Pedro gave Gail a long look. "You should be a history professor."
"Pedro. What about Mrs. Hoffman?"
"Right. Sorry. So the wife died in childbirth. The kids were with a family friend who was not Jewish and handed them over."
How cheerful. Gail rarely expected more or less from the world. That's shit they did. "So no relatives. How did we get to our Hoffman?"
"This is the Nazi part."
Gail frowned. "Not the concentration camps?"
"When Seymour died, a letter was sent back to the family who had his kids. But! They were already in the camps, or dead, so the family handed the letter over to the Nazis. Nothing happens until 1944, when Seymour Hoffman shows up at Ellis Island, claiming to be an art dealer."
"Now there's a twist... same guy?"
Pedro threw a new passport photo onto the wall. All the data was the same, the picture was different. "They've been digitizing everything that came through Ellis Island. I ran a search for Hoffman, found ten, and worked backwards until I got one related to art. Then I got two with the same birthday."
Indeed, Gail was impressed. "I can't say I would have looked for it that way ... nice. Smart."
Her baby D blushed. Toddler D really. "Thanks."
"So ... A Nazi stole Hoffman's identity?"
"Uh, yeah, yeah, Franz Müller. Quartermaster. He came over with five paintings and a suitcase."
"Amazing," muttered Gail. "Can you imagine? A Nazi German— I'm assuming. Müller is the most common German surname. A Nazi German pretending to be a Jew to escape Germany. That's ... That's write a novel about this shit and get famous, Pedro."
"Hah, not me. You've read my reports."
That was true. Pedro wrote a good report, but they were dry as dirt. Maybe Gail would play with that idea herself later. "Okay, how rock solid is this?"
"Mostly. I need to talk to a couple more places. But here's the best part. Trujillo's hunting down the painting and the family here in Canada."
Family? That was interesting and Gail arched her eyebrows. "Sounds like I oughta get her in here. Go back to hunt down our Nazi pre-Canada and send her in."
A moment later, she had a slightly confused Trujillo in her office. "Nuñez said you wanted to see me about the painting?"
"If your story is half as interesting as Pedro's, you've made my day. And I gotta tell you, Monday was already pretty awesome."
Lucinda stared at her. "This is me not asking." She cleared her throat. "I actually know some things but not enough."
"That's usually how it goes. Grab a seat and talk."
The younger detective did. "He used a forger."
"He ... Seymour?"
"Fake Seymour, yeah. He brought the real painting from Germany. Pedro had it on the manifest. Wanted to give it to Albert. His lover."
"Oh hello!" Now the run away from Germany made perfect sense. "You sure on that?"
"His gravestone is next to Seymour and it says beloved. So yeah. Pretty sure."
Gail grinned. "I'll take that bet, sure. Why didn't he give it to Albert?"
"He died in Korea. In the War. Seymour held on to the painting and then put it on display in museums. Can I use the wall?"
It wasn't a painting Gail would have chosen to flaunt, but there was no accounting for taste. "Knock yourself out." A list popped up, showing every museum that showed the art. Including a few months in Prague. Immediately that struck Gail as random.
"So the painting went around the world, came back to Canada about four months before Seymour died."
A headache was creeping up her neck. "Okay wait. What the hell does a forger have to do with this?"
"Oh right! The Vermeer! The old guy who made it was a friend of Albert's. Albert and Seymour loved art, and this guy loved making copies. He did the double work for fun and gave it to Albert."
"Huh," said Gail, processing that. "And Albert left it for Seymour. Who swapped it for the van de Velde... after the insuring obviously. But why? If Albert was dead, why would he keep it? And how the hell did Ernst show up if Seymour was gay?"
Trujillo smiled. "Ernst is made up."
"By...?"
"Not really sure yet," admitted Trujillo.
"Of course not," grumbled Gail, and her eyes drifted to the wall where the painting's dates of display were listed. "How'd Seymour Butts die?"
Trujillo paused but didn't rise to the bait. "Train accident. It derailed."
That was probably an accident. Alright. And then she read the dates on the wall again. Wasn't Sandy in Prague back then? Gail reached for her laptop and pulled up the history she'd made of the woman.
"I need to talk to Sandy," said Gail slowly. "And I want you to bring the forger in if he's still alive."
Blinking, Trujillo stammered. "But... but boss, he didn't ... you don't think—"
"Calm your tits, Lucinda. I think Sandy stole the ID." Her young detective looked like she was slapped. "Sandy was in Prague when the van de Velde was showing, back in the 60s, so I think she followed it back. She didn't become an insurance investigator until later, though, so I want to talk to her."
"But..." Trujillo stopped. "Ernst is his grandson? I mean the real Seymour's grandson?"
"More or less. I think Ernst claimed to be the grandson. A magical survivor of the war. The real children died, we have proof on that. At least records. But if it were me... well. I'll ask Sandy, I think she did that."
It would be so much easier to fake a baby's death. Lots of babies died in hard times. Malnutrition was deadly. Swap one baby for another and the Nazis would probably let it go.
"Oh. That ... That kind of makes a lot of sense." Then she asked, "And the forger?"
"I have a feeling he's key to this. Because Sandy sure as fuck doesn't know where the real van de Velde is. When can you get him in?"
"I'll go call him. He teaches art at community college."
"Good. I'll be at the New South Detention Centre." Gail closed her laptop and stood up. "Text me if you can get him here today."
As it turned out, Trujillo could get their forger-slash-teacher in at five PM. Later than Gail wanted to stay, but she'd rather have a case solved. The information came in right as Sandy was led into the room.
"Inspector, I trust this isn't a social call," said Sandy, cool as a cucumber.
"Hey, do you know a Mr. Tom Anderson?"
"Should I?" Sandy's expression was honest befuddlement.
"Betcha you know who Seymour Hoffman is, though."
Sandy flinched. "That didn't take you as long as I'd thought. How on earth... what mistake did I make?"
"With the identities? Not a one. We figured out ol' Seymour was a queer, and once you know he didn't have kids of his own and that the real Seymour's kids were dead, the idea that someone made them up was pretty obvious. In the seventies, too. Lot easier to make up long lost kids who shockingly survived the war after all. Or grandchildren."
Again a flinch. Sandy was caught dead to rights and she knew it. "I still have no idea where the original is."
"I know. I might." Gail flashed her most deadly smile and was pleased to see Sandy taken aback.
"What? But how!?"
Gail snorted. "I'm a fucking detective, that's how," she pointed out acerbically. "I'm way more than a pretty face."
Affronted, Sandy muttered, "Clearly."
"See, I strung a couple ideas together. Since you shattered my fanciful identity theft idea, I was trying to figure out why you were nervous when I talked about it."
"I wasn't nervous."
"You were. You got nervous, then you relaxed. Called my idea fanciful."
The woman looked nervous again, in much the same way. "It was."
"It was," agreed Gail. "But I like this one better. This one, this one you were roaming Europe on my family's dime. I did it on my own, by the way, stayed in hostels and shit. Backpacked. Best six months of my life."
That wasn't a lie. The first six months with Holly, after they'd gotten back together, those had been pretty good too. But Gail had lived a lot of six months that were great. None had ever been a consecutive half year stretch of out and out perfect. No Pecks. No family. No boys. She'd just been. Dov had once made a joke about how her book would be Eat, Pray, Hate, but really it had been Eat, Move, Avoid.
"You have a point, I presume?"
"Of course."
"You're practically Melville with the damn digressions."
Gail laughed. "They wear you down don't they?" She shook her head. "You were in Prague in 1967. Cold War, a moon race, and you're in Prague scoping out museums. So was the missing painting. The real missing one."
Sandy's face went stony. "I see."
"So you follow the painting back to Canada. Did you know who Seymour really was?"
"I knew who he wasn't," admitted Sandy. "There were ... There were inconsistencies in his story about the painting."
"Nazi. He stole it from the real Seymour who died on a boat to America."
It was like she'd bitten a lemon. Sandy's face puckered up tight. "Well I feel less guilty now."
"I thought you might," allowed Gail. "You followed the painting and, when Seymour died, you snuck in a dead son and a surprise grandson. Ernst. Clever."
Sandy looked away. "Well. You seem to have figured that out. I used the older son, the one who died in the camp."
"Yeah, why not the little guy? A baby is easier to fake a past for."
"I wasn't able to determine that he did in fact die. The records ... well I don't have your resources."
"I just asked nicely," said Gail, drawling a little. She made a note to double check on the actual death of the youngest son, though. A baby was not only easier to fake a life for, but easier to fake a death. "Is that why you left the painting where it was? Concerned a legitimate long lost heir would show up?"
"More or less. It was about the game more than the art." Sandy looked wistful. "I did love the art, though. It's beautiful."
"Not really my style. How many paintings have you stolen over the years?" When Sandy didn't answer, Gail rolled her eyes. "Oh come on. You know we're going over every single painting you've so much as looked at, right? Mounties hauled in a specialist. INTERPOL's in on the mix. The FBI are here. It's a fucking class project."
And yet Sandy remained silent.
"Fine. Fine." Gail sighed. "We know about six so far. I know. After that, I handed it all over because I gotta tell you, I don't care. You have shitty taste in art, in my opinion. Too obvious. I've had my guys working on finding the real van de Velde. Figuring out Seymour. Way I see it, the Mounties will have more fun negotiating with other countries about how you made the fake Hoffmans. That was a lot of work, too. And you did it so well. Lots of practice."
"Oh it's not that hard," said Sandy. "In fact, it's much easier now to create fake people with work histories. So many idiots contract out with third parties, and social anxiety is more accepted. A person no one meets is simple. You just need to start earlier."
"A lot of hard work. Was it fun?"
"Almost as much fun as walking out of a museum with a priceless artifact in your purse."
"It was all a game?"
Sandy looked at Gail. "You don't understand... well. That's to be expected. You're too close to them. The privileged." She sighed as if she was disappointed. "They, you have everything. You have means and method and opportunity. To be able to fool you all, make you think you have something but you don't? And the fact that most of you won't ever notice it's a fake, that is worth it."
Gail studied Sandy's face. She'd run into people like that before, who hated the rich. It was with just cause of course, Gail wouldn't deny that. Many wealthy people simultaneously hoarded and flaunted their privileges. Gail had lived her life straddling the line of wealth and service, which set her apart from both sets of peers. Her wealthy acquaintances saw her as a traitor and her middle class ones saw her as slumming.
It hardly mattered that neither were true. She was simply destined to be distrusted from both worlds. Gail used to fight about it and rage against it, screaming into the night about her mistreatment. She used to push people away, certain she would always be hated so at least let it be for a reason. Given the precious little support she received from her family, was it a shock that she was always so angry? So hurt?
But it was also so much more complicated than it looked from the outside.
Like as not, it was more complicated for Sandy as well. A poor girl who fell upward, who perhaps wasn't as alright with her boyfriend (and then husband) and his dalliances.
"I thought about murdering them, you know," said Gail carefully. "The Armstrongs. They're really assholes." She leaned back. "They cut my mother out when she married down. Of course, after she had significant success, and my brother, it worked out and they got chummy again, but Antonia always hated us."
Sandy read between the lines. "Your grandmother hated you?"
"My grandmother hated me."
The art thief looked dubious. "Because you look like Miranda?"
"She was no saint," Gail pointed out. "Hating me for reminding her about her own grandmother makes a lot of sense. I meant especially since Tristan ruined the Fairchild name. We hardly talk about it." Gail purposefully looked down her nose at Sadly. "Boy and I thought they blew a gasket when my Mom married down."
As Gail had hoped, Sandy stiffened.
The trick to this confession wasn't going to be bonding with the criminal or even seducing her with delusions of grandeur. Fame was a heady draw. Most criminals did want some degree of it, of acknowledgment to their greatness. But Sandy... Sandy wanted a very specific moment in the sun. She wanted acceptance from the people who had been all too happy to see the back of her. She wanted the Armstrongs to admit they were wrong about her.
And Gail was about to shatter that long held dream.
"It's funny, you know. I know a lot about the family scandals. I mean, I was one. Twice. We do talk about that stuff. The family dinners, you know... now that I'm a hero, I go to them. Christmas time. Slap on a sexy dress and show them all up." Gail flashed a smile. "We like to laugh about the failures. Uncle Ed married a travel agent. Aunt Shirley married an accountant. But the funny thing is? We never talk about you." Sweeping Sandy with a disparaging look Gail learned at Antonia knee, she stood up. "Small thinkers. I thought about murder, but I went with something better. And, unlike you, I was successful."
Gail turned and reached the door before Sandy broke and spoke.
"I sold most of them. For the money. People never wanted to file claims, so when I was brought in as an insurance investigator, I'd hook them up with forgers and copy artists. The insurance never paid out. Then I'd 'find' the stolen paintings. Collect twice. It's how I made my reputation."
It was rather brilliant, Gail had to admit. "And yet all your profiteering got you was a cozy cell."
Sandy looked around. "Yes. I've noticed." She sighed. "What hope do I have for a deal?'
"Depends on how much art is recovered, and if you turn on your forgers."
It took Gail another hour but she collected a series of names. Forgers, black market art dealers, and the like. She cheerfully dumped the information on Marcel, who was ecstatic over the data and ran off with it. As Gail rolled back into the division, she saw a tiny old man sitting outside her office.
Gail stopped in front of him. "Mr. Anderson I presume?"
The man looked up. "Inspector Peck?" His voice was steady and old, but not ancient.
"Awesome. Luce. Pedro. My office now." She waved a hand. "Mr. Anderson, come on in. Couch or chair, as you like." Gail walked into her office and threw her coat onto the hook. "Either you're early or I'm late. Sorry for making you wait."
"Oh it's no trouble. I've always wanted to be a part of a police investigation." The man walked in after her and took the couch. "I gather there's a mystery about my old friend Albert?"
"Actually his boyfriend, Seymour."
"His mysterious German lover? I knew that man was weird." Tom shook his head.
"We can make this quick. You ever paint for Seymour?"
Tom blinked and then laughed. "Once. He asked me to double paint a painting. It's the kind of request you never forget."
"Both paintings missing after the War." There was no need to say which war. "You did that?"
Tom blushed. "I did a lot back then. Made money remaking paintings for people who lost them in the war."
"Virtuous," said Gail. "Pedro, door." The door clicked shut. "Okay. I know you talked to Trujillo. How much do you know about all this?"
The man chuckled. "Right on the topic. Seymour and Albert were my friends. Albert was. Seymour came off the boat. They met at a showing. My showing. As much as I didn't like him, Albie loved him. What can you do?"
Gail smiled and sat on the edge of her desk. "You and Seymour stayed friends after Albert died?"
"No." Tom shook his head. "Not at all. I only ended up with Albie's stuff after he died because Seymour couldn't look at it."
What? Gail straightened up. "You have Albert's stuff?"
"Sure. In my attic. Didn't know what else to do with it. I mean, shopping at the other market doesn't give a guy a lot of options."
Well hell, Gail was filing that euphemism for gay away for later. "Seymour donated all the art except the van de Velde landscape." Gail picked up her tablet and threw a photo of the missing painting on the wall. "That's the one we're looking for."
"Huh. I had a student who was obsessed with that painting. Claimed he was related to the owner."
"Seymour?"
"No. Wally." Then Tom looked blank. "I thought you knew Seymour owned it?"
"Wally..." Gail felt lightning run down her spine. "Walter?"
"I guess... he was ten. You don't call ten year olds Walter."
Gail threw a photo of Walter on the screen. "Him?"
Tom looked surprised. "Uh. Maybe. Kinda looks like his mom." He paused. "His mom died when he was nineteen. Wally hung out with me a lot. Then he and his sister vanished. Does that ... Does that have anything to do with all this?"
Grinning ear to ear, Gail texted Holly to tell her she'd be late. "Tom. You may be my new favorite guy. Now. Would you be willing to let us search your attic?"
"That is a hella expensive item to have in evidence lock up," said Andy under her breath.
"It's really not that much," said Gail.
That was true, Vivian had to agree. Neither van de Velde or Leistikow were all that popular. Not compared to Vermeer. But still, the van de Velde in lockup was pricey. Vivian grinned at them both. "It's more than Andy's condo."
Craning her neck around Gail, Andy scowled. "How do you know how much my condo cost?"
"You signed the papers at Moms' place." Vivian watched Gail scan the item one last time. "We're just leaving it in here?"
"I'm waiting on the insurance company. They're kinda insane right now." Gail ushered everyone out. Everyone except Gerald who stood stupid sentinel over the painting.
A painting in evidence.
It was cool and Gail was, once again, Vivian's hero.
"I can't believe that old guy had it in his attic all this time." Andy cast one more look at the door to evidence.
That had been the brilliant twist. After the painting had returned from Prague, Seymour had been at a loss for what to do with it. He stored it in Tom Anderson's collection for a while, along with the fake. When Seymour had insured it, he'd 'accidentally' insured the wrong one. Or not. It was impossible to tell.
Sandy had paid Tom for the information, not that either party had known who the other was. They'd just been ships on the black market night. Tom, being an actual forger, had simply thought he'd been paid off for information and thought little of it. Sandy hadn't known the information was wrong because Tom hadn't either. Karma.
Heading back to Andy's office, Gail and Andy chatted about the location of the painting, and how it really wasn't a shock to find long lost paintings in the back of an attic, filled with memory of friends long gone. Vivian had been around for a few specific purposes, after which she was supposed to go back on desk duty.
"Okay, how'd they find it," asked Jenny, the second Vivian sat back down.
"Forger had it in his attic."
"But," said Lara, as she appeared practically out of nowhere, "That's not the cool part of the story." The baby detective, still in her uniform these days, sat at Vivian's desk. "You read DNA right?"
Vivian rolled her eyes. "I do."
"Seymour Hoffman, the real Seymour, was buried in New York," explained Lara.
Raising her hand, Jenny asked, "Real Seymour?"
"Died coming to America, ID and paintings stolen." Picking up her tea, Vivian smiled. "We got the real Seymour's body exhumed."
"Why?" Jenny made a face. "He got kids?"
"According to the records, they died shortly after he did. According to upstairs, his grandson sitting in Millburne." Vivian sipped the tea and made a face. "Ugh, this is gross."
Lara rolled her eyes. "Why were you in there anyway?"
"Measuring the painting to try and figure if an in situ swap was possible." Vivian pushed her mug to the end of her desk. Because there was the other theory that someone had changed the painting out after it went into the safe deposit box. When everyone involved was dead, it was hard to tell.
Jenny was staring at them. "Hang on, crazy Walter dude is related to dead Seymour who owned the painting Walter tried to steal?"
Picking up a napkin, Vivian wiped her tongue off. "Apparently. Lemme see the DNA, Lara? And how did you get this anyway?"
"Detective Nuñez. Major Crimes doesn't have a lot of unis at the moment. I ran errands and samples to the lab. The new tech is hot."
"Doyle?" Vivian frowned. She knew Doyle, but a short, thin haired, chubby, scruffy nerd was not anything at all like the other boys Lara had dated.
"Doyle?" Jenny parroted. "Seriously? Nerd boy Doyle?"
"What can I say. A beautiful mind is hot." She held out her tablet to Vivian. "How related are we talking?"
Vivian read the lab results and then blinked. "Wait what..." She scrolled up and read the analysis and then the results again. "Okay so grandparent DNA tests work best if you have all four grandparents. More to match. Establishing paternity via a grandparent and grandchild is way better now than it was, y'know, when we were kids, but it's still not great. Gives a percentage chance of a relationship only."
"Nothing like TV," muttered Jenny.
"Doyle ran a Y-STR, which is a test to determine if two guys share the same patrilineal chromosome. It's the 'whose your daddy' test, but it works best with grandfather, father, and grandson. If we had Walter's sister, it'd be a lot more chancy."
"How the hell does that work?" Jenny made a face. "I didn't go into science on purpose."
Vivian smiled. "Y chromosomes come from the father. Women, typically, don't have them if they can carry a child, they're XX. So the sperm is what determines if a kid is a boy or a girl. Y chromosomes are also low probability for mutations and are pretty much the same for generations. A direct male line can be tracked. Since Seymour had two sons, and Walter's a biological male, we have our Y line. This test? Identical Y patterns. Walter is Seymour's, the real Seymour's, grandson."
A familiar voice cleared her throat. "While I'm inordinately pleased you remember all that, young Peck, I thought I asked you to evaluate painting sizes with the frames?"
Vivian flushed and glanced at her mother. "Sorry, Inspector." Both Jenny and Lara scrambled to look busy as well.
"Uh huh." Gail sipped tea from her own mug, a DAD mug of course. "Turns out the son was smuggled out. The family friends didn't turn the baby over at all. They figured they could save one, so they called it a cot death and got a doctor to fake papers. Smuggled the boy to Spain, where he grew up as Juan Naldo García. When he was a teenager, he moved to Canada with his adopted family. Married a nice girl, had two kids, died on a boat in Lake Erie."
Under her breath, Vivian muttered, "Family oughta sail clear of boats."
Her mother snorted a laugh. "I know, right? Juan's kids, Walter and Louise, are actually Wauthier and Luisa. She's in the wind. He's in prison. Went all kinds of pale when I greeted him by his name, in Spanish."
That was Gail alright. Vivian rolled her eyes a little. "Did he think Ernst was his brother or something?"
"Cousin. Walter is the baby's son, not the older one's. He dug into Ernst and was hoping his uncle and all were still alive." Gail shook her head. "Volk, get upstairs and deliver those results. By hand. Like you're supposed to. Peck, I want the evals. Aronson... " Gail trailed off and sighed, waving her hand as she walked off.
Vivian laughed and bent to work while her classmates scrambled. "Don't worry, she's not really mad. She'll brag about this at the Penny tonight."
"She should," said Jenny. "I mean, she was supposed to let the Mounties do all that. Won't she get in trouble?"
"For solving a crime and handing it over to them? Nah. If she'd tried to snipe their accolades maybe, but ... They're pretty used to her right now."
After Gail stopped trying to grab recognition all the time, which had happened shortly after meeting Holly, her ability to solve crimes and not care about who got the kudos skyrocketed. Fast forward a million years and Gail just wanted to solve crimes. She didn't care if she got the props, she cared if the crime was solved and she got to be brilliant doing it.
"If she was wrong more often, they'd probably get annoyed." Jenny leaned back and craned her neck. "Are we keeping the painting here until the trial?"
"Dunno."
"Well if you don't know..." And Jenny laughed.
Vivian did have an idea, of course. A painting like that would stay in the local evidence before it was sent to the lab. Vivian's bet would be it'd be sent to Holly's new rare documents and paintings room.
Pulling up her reports, Vivian compared her measurements to the ones on record. The painting was barely different in size. It was just enough that it could be swapped out and wouldn't be noticed unless people were paying close attention. But there was a lot more to it than just simply measuring, and Vivian used some software to build a copy of the safe deposit box and program in the act swapping.
Playing with computers like that was fun and she lost track of time. The gurgling of her stomach was the only notification that she'd been at it for hours. "Ugh. I'm getting something to eat," she announced to Jenny, getting up.
"Don't try the tea. I think the kettle is growing new life."
"Duly noted." Vivian stretched her arms over her head and walked down the hall. She passed the photos of dead officers, killed in the line of duty made up one side of the hallway, while died in uniform did the over.
There was Bill Peck right on the third row with the other inspectors (no other Pecks, they were across the hallway). Above him was a set of superintendents (one Peck) and above that, the picture of Al Santana. It was impossible to walk down the halls of Fifteen and not see her family everywhere.
Vivian shook her head and went into the break room. Fresh fruit had been delivered, probably from Celery who still did that, and there were leftover sandwiches from something... Vivian sniffed them, made a face, and chucked them.
Fruit wasn't a bad lunch, but it lacked protein and she needed brain food. Maybe she could raid Gail's leftovers. No, wait. Better. Potstickers. Vivian threw out the rest of the bad food and headed back to her desk. Maybe Jenny would want some. Usually would. All cops were hungry most of the time. It came with the job.
As she rounded the corner, Vivian caught a whiff of something odious. "Did I get rotten food on me?" She scowled and looked at her pants. Getting smells out of cotton poly was a pain in the ass.
Wait.
No.
That was burning smelly things.
Vivian turned around and swore. "Fire! Fire in the evidence room!"
She yanked the fire alarm and sprinted to the door. The faintest wisp of smoke was coming out from underneath. Why the hell wasn't the smoke alarm going off? Vivian ran her card through the security slot, pressing her free hand against the door. It was cool enough that a backdraft was unlikely.
Pushing the door open, Vivian spotted an unconscious Gerald and a broken smoke detector on the floor, along with a broken chair. Who the hell... No time to think or doubt. She grabbed the cop on the floor and hauled him out, while the other cops ran up.
"Fire department is on its way," shouted Nick. "I got Duncan." And he quickly grabbed Duncan's feet, helping her haul the man out of the way.
It was Andy herself who charged in with an extinguisher, spraying it at the base of the fire and shouting for an evacuation. Christian and Rich were taking care of lockup when Vivian heard the too sweet sound of sirens.
A few things happened in order, and Vivian was sure she'd never forget it. First, Vivian and Nick got Gerald outside. Then the fire truck with its big four emblazoned on the side pulled up. An EMT, Barrow, took charge of Gerald while a very familiar woman had to bash the windows through Rich's car to run the hose. Jamie swung an axe like no one's business.
Best. Day. Ever.
"Fire was pretty well contained," Shay was telling Andy. Hovering over to the side was an amused looking Gail, sipping coffee, and looking incredibly calm. "No structural damage or serious concerns. Any idea what happened?"
Andy looked grim. "You really think that was it, Gail?"
Since Gail had said nothing in the time the big wigs had collected themselves, this had to be part of a previous conversation. "I do," said Gail coolly. "Little Peck, come here."
Shay smirked. "She's taller than both of us, Gail."
"Calling her Young Peck makes me feel old."
"You are old, ma'am," noted Vivian.
Gail scowled. "Just for that, I'm not telling you why I'm not worried."
Vivian studied her mother. Gail was remarkably calm, considering a multi million dollar lost painting was in evidence. "Obviously the painting isn't in there," she told Gail, who smirked. "But using Gerald as bait is kinda cold."
"Who's Gerald?" asked Shay.
"Duncan Moore, the officer who got beaned," replied Andy. "And before you ask, yes, Gail did that."
Shay rolled her eyes. "This is me, not surprised."
"The painting's at the lab, under guard. I'd like to know how our firebug got in." Gail eyed Andy. "You did get it on tape, right?"
Technically it would be on digital disk, but Vivian opted not to get in that argument again.
"Of course," said Andy, offended. "She walked in as part of a mugging. Goff left her alone at his desk on the other side of the floor. She snuck in."
"Stole his keycard?" Vivian arched her eyebrows.
"He doesn't have it on him now," said Andy, and this time she was grim. "I sent the video to the lab for the forensic geeks to check but she probably picked his pocket."
Gail shook her head. "At least the fire was contained. Good job with that, McNally."
Both of Andy's eyebrows launched into the stratosphere. Vivian nearly laughed at the look of pure shock and surprise on Andy's face. "You're telling me good job? Are you drunk?"
"Never at work," said Gail seriously. "Hungover, maybe. Not drunk. You saved the rest of the evidence."
"Well. We're going to have a shitty time of it." Andy's expression shifted into dismay.
"No. They are." Gail pointed at Vivian with her cup.
"I'm a she, not a they." She gave her mother her most impish smile. The post-adrenaline rush did tend to make her cheeky. Vivian knew that.
"Hush, you," muttered Gail. "You wanna give her to Kelly?"
Shay nodded. "Yeah, he won't intimidate her. She's a Peck. Talk to Sue?"
Gail waved a hand. "I want Fuller on the inventory."
"Ouch! What'd he do to you?" Smiling, Andy nodded as if to say she approved.
"He's got that weird pedantic nature. He can do this."
"Look at you," teased Shay. "Using that five dollar word."
Ignoring that, Andy pointed out something. "I need to test Volk more."
"Use 'em both," said Gail. "Case is big enough. I mean, the odds are someone went for the painting. Took our dummy." Gail impishly added, for Vivian, "I put a dye packet in it. I really hope she opens it." And she mimed a 'boom.'
Ah. "You want me to solve an arson?"
"You have a disturbing amount of familiarity with arsons, bombs, and the painting," said Andy. "I don't know why Gail's hair hasn't gone grey yet."
As one, Shay and Vivian replied, "Hair dye."
But it was a sweet gig. Sue approved the assignment and Vivian rounded out her day with meeting up with the firefighters at, of all places, the Penny. Apparently saving the division was grounds for a local invite. Firefighters drank free, which led to a very tipsy Jamie, who was very happy to have the night off.
Growing up, Vivian had been peripherally aware of how her parents tended to be horny especially after one or the other had been particularly brilliant. She'd been witness to their long, lingering looks at the Penny while Gail celebrated an arrest or Holly touted the achievements of science. Finding herself in the position of awe to her girlfriend's actions meant Vivian was uncomfortably turned on.
It was as if Jamie was extra sexy in the moment. Every time her girlfriend laughed or downed a shot, Vivian felt herself grow red. She wasn't jealous, she was just thinking about the arms that swung the axe and the back muscles and Jesus, she was going to drag Jamie up to the cabin in summer and watch her chop wood and ... Oh god. That was why her parents were always screwing after they did work around the house or cabin.
All Vivian wanted was to drag Jamie home and screw her brains out.
God that was an inappropriate thought to have while sitting in the Penny. In public. When she absolutely couldn't do anything about it. And worst of all, Gail caught her eye as she headed to the bar and started laughing. She knew. She totally knew.
No doubt Gail would give her shit for it. Well. Hung for a sheep, hung for the flock. Vivian got up and came to the bar. "Hey," she said to Jamie, who was picking up a shot.
Her girlfriend's face was bright and flushed. "Hey. You guys know how to throw a party."
"We have our moments." Vivian glanced at Gail, who was studiously not looking at them. "Wanna head out?"
Jamie looked surprised. "People'd out?" But all Vivian did was raise her eyebrows. "Oh. Yes." She downed the shot and shivered. "Home."
Smiling, Vivian caught Jamie's hand and led her out to the truck. She drove them home, holding hands much of the way, and quite a while after, Vivian lazily kissed Jamie's body as she made her way back up to lie alongside the firefighter. "I'm so glad you had tonight home," she murmured and kissed the spot behind Jamie's ear that made the other woman shudder.
"Putting out fires makes me hot, huh?" Jamie laughed breathlessly.
"Smashing Rich's car did." And Vivian nipped at Jamie's neck. "I get off on the manpain, I guess."
Her girlfriend snorted a loud laugh. "Oh god, that's not at all attractive," Jamie informed and rolled to her side. Running her fingertips down Vivian's face, Jamie smiled.
"Sorry." Vivian turned her cheek to kiss Jamie's palm. "You really were amazing. The way you swing an axe." She shuddered a little. Yes, Jamie being butch was a hell of a turn on. "You should try chopping wood at the cabin."
"It's a house," Jamie pointed out. "It's a house in the woods, Viv."
Vivian pressed her lips to Jamie's wrist, gently turning it to pepper small kisses up to her elbow. "It was built by a pale, pale, red haired trapper named Peck."
"And expanded on by how many generations?" Jamie's voice was inching towards breathless as Vivian trailed feather light kisses up to her shoulder again. "God, you're driving me crazy, Viv."
"You're welcome." Vivian paid attention to Jamie's collar bone and clavicle. Damn it, Holly and the practical anatomy lessons. She shoved the thought out of her head and smiled against Jamie's skin. "I love your muscles," she said quietly, tracing the outlines of them on Jamie's shoulder and upper arm.
Jamie laughed softly and let Vivian nudge her onto her back. "My muscles."
"Mmmm hmmm." She swept her hand down to Jamie's abs. Good god the abs. "If you were in the calendar, I'd never change your month," Vivian said a moment before kissing Jamie's navel.
The reply surprised her. "I am," said Jamie, sighing as Vivian continued to kiss her. "In this year's calendar. I'm May."
Vivian froze and looked up. "What?"
"May..." Jamie cleared her throat. "Uh. You stopped."
"You're Miss May?"
Jamie propped herself up on her elbows. "I've never heard it said that way ... Yes? Is that a problem?"
Vivian couldn't help it. She laughed. "Oh my god. You're Miss May!" Laughing, she pressed her face into Jamie's stomach. "I'm dating Miss May!"
"I think I'm missing something."
"Hang on, I have a copy." Vivian kissed Jamie's stomach again and rolled off the bed, running to her bedroom shelves.
The bottom shelf had photo albums and one very special collection of her idiot mothers. A special album Gail had made, collecting copies of photos of her and Holly through the years, mostly from before Vivian was in their lives. There was Gail at her graduation and Holly at hers. There was rookie Gail and baby forensics Holly. There was the amazing softball catch Gail made once.
She flipped the pages and paused. "Okay, this may be a mood killer," said Vivian, looking at the picture.
In all fairness, it had been a few years since she'd looked at it. And having a soft core porn of one's mother was on the edge of acceptable, normal behavior. The picture was intended to be seductive, and Vivian saw why Gail often lost her ability to speak while looking at the calendar.
Holly was standing by a lab bench and had one hand on a microscope. She wore a lab coat, crisp and white, open over black lace bra and panties set, stockings with suspenders, and high heels. As Holly leaned over the microscope, her tousled dark hair hung across her shoulders, and Holly smiled that quirky smile.
"Okay, now I have to see this."
"It's .. right." She held out the album. After all, Jamie had already gotten an eyeful of topless Holly.
Jamie laughed and then her jaw dropped. "Wow. That's Holly!"
"Yep," said Vivian, popping the P and dropping onto the bed.
"And that's ... Miss May. Oh my god. Holly is Miss May." Jamie shook her head. "Okay that's hilarious. Can I look at the rest?"
"Do I get to see the outtakes from your calendar shoot?"
"I'll get you a copy," promised Jamie, pulling the sheet up to cover her lap.
"Carry on. If you start at the beginning it's got Gail in high school. She's a goth."
Jamie's hand hovered over the pages and, instead, she closed the album and put it on her nightstand. "I will save that for breakfast. I think I need coffee to face Goth Gail Peck."
"Gail will flip over your calendar too."
"Ew."
"She has all the outtakes of Holly."
"I'm not giving her those." Jamie was firm. She held a hand out to Vivian. "You though, you can look at the outtakes with me straddling a hose."
"Mmmm. That sounds like a story." She took Jamie's hand and herself be tugged over, closer.
Jamie smiled and tipped Vivian onto her back, the sheet still between them. "It's not much of a story. They wanted to have a bunch of us holding the hose."
"Y'know, I know you're bi, but..."
Her girlfriend laughed and kissed her, long and soft and tender. "I'm not poly. That's Ruby."
"Rigggght. How she has three boyfriends I'll never understand."
"Carefully. But if any of her boyfriends were as time consuming as you..." Jamie trailed off and kissed Vivian's neck. "I'd much rather have one you than three less complicated people."
Vivian sighed and tilted her head back to give Jamie more access.
The next morning, Vivian showed up with a somewhat obscene but yet tasteful present for her mothers and a fire to investigate. And a bite mark on her neck.
"Kid, every time I see you, you have a hickey."
She grinned at Kelly from Arson. "You're just jealous."
"I've worked with your girl. I'm kinda in awe. That for me?" He pointed at the wrapped gift under her arm.
Vivian made a show of reading the label. "Gail Peck... Yeah, no. Give me ten minutes."
"I'll give you twenty if you put your uniform on. We're gonna get started right after Parade."
"Good, 'cause I forgot donuts!" Vivian changed quickly and ran up to the third floor. As she'd hoped, Gail wasn't there so Vivian left the gift on the desk and skidded into Parade with a few seconds to spare.
Andy gave her the stink eye. "Nice of you to join us, Peck. Sit." The sergeant turned to the officers. "As you know, we had a bit of a boom in evidence yesterday. Today, Peck will be in charge of overseeing the investigation with Kelly. Volk will be in charge of salvage and inventory of evidence. Fuller, you're going to be with them. And before anyone asks, Officer Moore is fine."
There was scattered applause.
"All evidence collected today goes right to One Building. Dr. Stewart has a intake room set up for you. Road Sergeant will update you with details through the day if that changes, but if you want our room back faster, send Fuller and Volk espresso. Assignments are on the board. Serve, protect, don't screw up." Andy rapped the podium and dismissed the room.
Right outside Parade, Vivian met Kelly. "All ready, kid?"
"You should try being inside Parade, Kelly. We don't bite." Vivian smiled. "So how's this gonna work? We got a baby D and a rook in with us."
"You know them?"
"Peck," said Vivian, as blasé as Gail. "Fuller's my roommate, Volk was in our class."
Kelly rolled his eyes. "Fucking Pecks. I don't know why I even ask."
"We are the exact epicenter of the universe," she remarked, still deadpan.
"Come on, introduce me to the other idiots."
Outside of the evidence room, two experienced coppers stood guard. Lara and Christian were calmly waiting, happy to meet Kelly and work with him. Inside the room, it was a fucking mess. The firefighters had done an admirable job of not destroying too much evidence, but water damage was water damage.
Thankfully evidence had been cleaned out earlier, shipping most everything to the big building. That had been part of the cost cutting moves. The majority of evidence no longer lived in each division. Too many cases were open and ongoing, so they had dedicated buildings that were devoted to evidence. Sadly, the main building used to be a prison, so it was incredibly creepy.
The lack of volume meant Christian, who was certified to collect evidence, was permitted to review each item, update its status in the system, and have it boxed and sent to the big building. Lara helped him, taking the lead as if she was the detective for the case. Good. So she knew what she was there for.
"Hey, Peck. How come you and Volk aren't in your streets?"
"Lara's not cut lose yet," said Vivian. "Any day now, though, right?"
"Hopefully if I don't fuck up today," replied Lara, laughing.
Vivian squatted by the epicenter. Of the fire. As much as Andy joked, she really was getting very familiar with the work. "Okay. Whatever she used would have had to pass an x-ray."
"Doesn't mean much," said Kelly.
"Means a lot. Like Sterno? Wouldn't be stored in plastic. Most, if not all alcohol based fuel cells need to be stored in metal." She looked up at Kelly. "You sure you're an arson specialist?"
He smirked at her. "Hexamine."
Vivian nodded. "Fuel tabs are the way I'd go. Simple. Easy to buy. Smokeless, too, so she'd have ample time to get away before enough evidence burnt." She studied the burn pattern. "Small problem with that."
"Illegal as fuck, thank you global warning," said Kelly with a grunt. "Everything else about this case is old, though."
A fair point. Nearly everything about the case was as old as her grandparents. "Hexamine was popular in the Cold War era," said Vivian. "And in Japan. Not so good when wet."
"Ever cook with them?"
"No, I use charcoal when I have the choice."
"Not a propane fan?"
"If I wanted a fully controlled fire, I'd cook inside." Vivian frowned and ran a gloved finger across the metal shelving. "Hey, does hexamine leave any trace?"
"Not of itself," mused Kelly. "If there's a pot, though... it leaves this nasty, sticky gunk."
Flip that upside down, she thought. "What if you burn it on metal?"
"Like inside a pot? Same idea."
Vivian nodded and pulled out a Q-tip to take a sample. The residue was sticky. "Based on this, I think she put the tablet under something flammable."
"How about a book?" Christian spoke up from the other side of the room. "She came in with a novel," he explained, holding up his tablet.
"Please tell me it was Animal Farm," said Vivian, hopefully. "Or a copy of V for Vendetta."
Christian smirked. "Sorry, it's some shitty airport novel. A Chubby Girl's Guide to Graduation. Nothing but two star reviews."
"Sounds more average than shitty," remarked Lara. "We are really lucky here. McNally was amazing with the fire."
"She got blown up once, in evidence," Vivian noted. "About twenty years ago, there was a situational fire in evidence, too many things too close together. Boom. Andy got caught up in the middle."
"Yikes," muttered Christian.
Kelly just nodded. "Wasn't Steve a prime suspect?"
With an eye roll, Vivian nodded. "He'd used Oliver's badge to get into evidence. Some gang shit I guess." She bagged and labeled the sample carefully. "No, he didn't do it. There's a movie about it, with Tom Cruise as Oliver."
Christian, who had seen the movie, chuckled. "Oh right. Deep Blue Cover. I can't believe they made it an action movie." He shook his fist. "How long have I done this job? 20 years, I gave this job 20 years, I've been bustin' in doors to meth houses, chargin' into basements. I never know if I'm gonna get shot by some skell or if I'm gonna see my kids' faces again."
She could only smile. "Y'know, he actually said that. To Swarek and McNally."
"I still can't believe Swarek retired," said Lara. "I kinda feel like it's our fault."
Vivian shook her head. "Wasn't." Sam had come by her apartment to apologize about it, and to ensure her that he knew it was all on him. She'd known that, thanks to Gail, but it was still nice to hear.
"Hey, I'm just glad our part of this ain't so bad. How's yours?" Christian looked a little interested.
Guilty, Vivian looked back at the shelving. "She probably used a fire starter."
"Hexamite?" Lara sounded interested too.
"Hexamine," corrected Kelly. "How do you think she snuck it in?"
"Oh easy, do it as gum." Vivian smirked. "Tablets are easy, right? Same shape as a gum pellet, and Goff is a moron."
Kelly huffed. "He getting fired?"
"Suspended," said Lara. "I heard McNally scream at him."
"At least he's not evil." Christian had, Vivian recalled, been tasked with spying on Goff. He was really just an idiot. He was as dumb as Gerald without any of the redeeming features.
Vivian picked up some more debris. She knew, from her own training and talking with Jamie, a lot about fires. Like she knew that firefighters didn't really rescue kittens from trees, though they did save the occasional moose. And she knew they did use the pole for practical reasons. Vivian also knew that the best way to extinguish a fire was to aim at its base.
In addition, Vivian knew evidence was stacked neither top to bottom, nor bottom to top, but middle around. Aiming at the base of the fire to put it out meant anything below the fire (and behind) would have been soaked by water. Yet they hadn't used water!
Jamie's station was one of the first to be using non-water based extinguishing agents. Privately Vivian suspected that was a behind the scenes Peck hand off. Of course water was still used, but because it could be so detrimental to evidence, the suppression method had to be more complex.
And that brought up the question of how the hell their automated system had failed. The techs had checked that overnight, but Vivian hadn't asked what the result was. "Hey, Kelly? Do you know why the suppression system failed."
"Didn't."
Oh. Kelly. A man of few words.
Thankfully Lara asked. "So it just didn't go off?"
"Fire was too contained. Not enough smoke and it set off the alarm but not the suppression system." Kelly grunted. "The techs are gonna have to reprogram that."
Well didn't that suck. Vivian was just glad that it meant the formula of whatever the hell the chemicals were meant that the firefighters didn't blast all the evidence all over the room.
And what also didn't suck was the weird paper she saw wedged in the shelving.
"Oh hello," said Vivian quietly. "Kelly, come here."
The arson specialist looked. "Is that ... paper?"
"Better." She took a folder and then got out tweezers. "Poor man's time delay trigger."
"Bullshit..."
No shit. It was a matchbook. Something had kept it from being fully consumed by the fire. Possibly the location. Vivian carefully tugged it out and marveled. "Flashlight," Vivian said softly.
Kelly whipped out his high powered mini mag light and handed it over. Vivian aimed it, angling it carefully until...
"Is that?" Kelly was astounded.
"A fingerprint," said Vivian, and she felt like singing.
A fucking fingerprint.
The sister is at large. The siblings are the grandchildren of the real Seymour Hoffman, the true Hoffman Heirs.
The speech Christian quotes of Oliver's is very close to what Ollie actually says in Season 6, Episode 7 "Best Man." Remember in this universe, the bomb was not on purpose, but Steve did use Ollie's badge to cover something up for a big case. Thanks, Steve!
None of the books Gail told Holly about are real.
(PS: Reviews are very welcome. I worry when no one leaves reviews.)
