It's Five O'clock Somewhere

by Musical Redhead

In a battle of wills, does there have to be a loser? The good detective has to decide. He and the reporter are at the top of their games, though they aren't very perceptive. Mystery #4, Final.

2. Take it Away

Title: It's Five O'clock Somewhere

Chapter 2: Take it Away

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: Thank you for the reviews!

You can learn many things from children. How much patience you have, for instance. –Franklin P. Jones

Take it Away

Rory walked downstairs Saturday morning and continued to the beacon of light that was the kitchen. She found Tristan there, leaning his side against the counter, watching a couple pancakes sizzle on a griddle. A pot of coffee was behind him, already half empty.

She admired his figure, clad in dark wash jeans and a white dress shirt, his blonde hair combed forward. She wondered how committed he was to starting the day, or if he'd be interested in joining her back upstairs. She snapped out of this reverie when he noticed her and looked up.

"Morning."

"Morning," she returned, rounding the island to take a seat on a stool to watch him flip the pancakes. "How long have you been up?"

He checked the time on the glowing microwave clock. Seeing it said eight o'clock, he answered, "A few hours."

Rory propped an elbow on the counter so she could rest her cheek in her hand. "I slept most of yesterday and all night, and I think I could go back to bed. How are you even functioning?"

He shrugged. "I woke up, so I got up."

"Pancakes are an ambitious breakfast when you have to get to work."

"We don't have anything else."

"Nothing?" she asked with a frown, getting up and going to the pantry. She opened it and sure enough, it was nearly baron, save for the spices and a few boxes of pasta. She continued to the refrigerator, and found a similar picture. While there was only enough milk to fill half a glass, there was enough ketchup and mustard to make a terrific condiment sandwich—if they had any bread, that is. She took the small spiral notebook off the magnet clip from the refrigerator door and took it to her place at the counter.

Picking up an ink pen, she asked, "What do we need?"

"Everything," Tristan answered as he took two plates down from the cabinet.

Rory wrote the one word response on the top line and sat the notepad aside. "We can go to the store tonight." She noticed her digital camera sitting on a manila folder to the side of the island and picked it up. "What's this out for?"

He glanced over as he flipped the pancakes one last time. "I think we're paying too much on our property taxes compared to the other buildings around us. I'm going to take some pictures and contest it."

She pressed the power button and focused on Tristan, snapping a photo. "Why didn't you do that last year?"

"Because I did our taxes at the last minute."

"Oh, right. The neighbors are going to think somebody died suspiciously with you lurking around, snapping photos," Rory said, setting the camera back down.

Tristan flipped the pancakes onto the top plate and slid it over to Rory. She got up for butter and syrup while he poured batter on the griddle for two more pancakes. While they cooked, he picked up her little spiral notebook and flipped the page. He wrote down a six digit number and handed it over.

"What's this?"

"The new security code to get into the building."

"You changed it this morning?"

He nodded.

"Of course you did. You've had a whole day." She frowned at the numbers. "Mom's going to be disappointed it's not her birthday anymore."

"She had her year."

Rory waved the notepad. "I don't recognize this date. Whose birthday is it?"

"I have family members too, you know."

"I know."

"And they'd like their birthday commemorated by being our security code for a year."

"Okay," Rory said. "So whose is it?"

"Not important."

After a pause, she asked, "Your dad?"

"I didn't say that."

"I know, that's why I guessed him. If it was your grandpa, you'd just admit it. But you don't want to, so it must be your dad. He's obviously on your mind."

"It could be Mom's," he argued.

"Is it?"

"No." When she smiled in triumph, he pouted, "You don't know me." When his pancakes were finished, he joined Rory at the island and reached for the butter. "Are you going to work today?"

"No. I'll phone it in if I need to," she answered. "I don't have clean clothes to wear out in public. And I'm on my last pair of underwear."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Tristan rubbed his forehead as he concentrated on the document in front of him. He flipped through a few pages behind it and distractedly asked, "You got a warrant before you searched the house, right?"

From the desk across from him, Mark looked up with a frown. "What? When?"

"On this Newman case."

Mark blinked. "Yes. I got a warrant first," he said, his brows moving closer together slightly.

Tristan pulled out another form and put it on top so he could skim it. "Here it is."

Mark stared. "And before you ask, I properly Mirandized him—in case you're worried I don't know how it works without your supervision." He went back to looking through missing persons. "If it's not too much trouble, I could use your help on our case," he said pointedly.

Tristan reluctantly sat aside the folder he was looking through and picked up his stack of pictures. They'd weeded out some by comparing the photo they had of the victim, but weren't any closer to identifying her. A couple minutes later, his phone buzzed from his pocket.

"DuGrey."

"Gilmore. Anything new?" his wife asked.

"I've been here a half an hour," he deadpanned.

"I know, but you've been like Superman today. I thought you might have cleared the case by now."

"I haven't. We don't know anything new," he told her as he turned to another photo. "Do you have any idea how many women have been reported missing in New York in the past few months?"

"Loads," Rory answered. "That's why I'm waiting for you to figure it out, so then you can just tell me. I'll go from there."

"You're getting lazy." His desk phone started ringing then. "I'm getting anther call. I have to go."

"Wait, wait, wait, don't hang up! It could be important, and then you can tell me about it," Rory pleaded.

It was in vain, as Tristan went ahead and ended the call on his cell. He picked up his other phone and answered. He listened to the caller and nodded, scribbling a name down. He hung up and looked over at Mark. "Dental records say it's Avery Fox."

They both typed the name into their search engines and waited for the results. Mark read, "She was reported missing last October by her mother."

Tristan Googled her name, and scanned the articles. Sardonically, he said, "Oh boy, Rory's going to like this one."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later, the two detectives were sitting across the dining room table from a woman in her early sixties and her daughter. They'd just broken the bad news, which wasn't a complete surprise to the them. Tristan always dreaded this part of the job. Families wanted answers and looked to them with expectant looks, trusting them to seek justice on their behalf. It was a lot to live up to, and they always promised they would. Unfortunately, it was an empty promise sometimes.

The younger woman, Aubrey pushed her blonde hair over her shoulder. "You're sure it's her?" she asked, though with little conviction, as though she was hoping they'd say they made a mistake.

"We'll need you to come by the morgue to ID her, but the dental records matched hers," Stevenson said, pocketing the photo he'd shown them so they wouldn't have to look at it.

Tristan asked Mrs. Fox, "You reported Avery missing on October thirtieth, correct?"

The older woman shook her head. "I tried a couple days earlier—as soon as she stopped answering my calls. She usually gets back to me at the end of the night, but she hadn't. So right away, I knew something was wrong. But the police said they wouldn't do anything at first, because an adult could leave without telling anyone. But Avery wouldn't do that."

"Is there anyone who had a problem with her?" Tristan asked.

"I can't think of anyone. She was such a sweet girl."

Aubrey said, "She could have made someone down at city hall mad. She pesters some of those council members sometimes."

"Avery fought for the truth," Mrs. Fox argued. "That's just her job." She shook her head sadly. "She had such a promising future. I just don't understand who would do this to her."

Stevenson asked, "Did she have a boyfriend?"

"She did," Mrs. Fox answered. "Sean Adams. He's a nice boy."

Next to her, Aubrey's lips flattened into a thin line and her brows lowered. Hesitantly, she said, "He's very charming, that's for sure."

Tristan lifted a cup of tea that was in front of him. Although it was half full, he told the younger woman, "Could I have some more?" He stood and pointed to the next room. "It's just in the kitchen, right?"

Aubrey nodded. "Yeah, I'll get it."

Tristan followed her into the kitchen and sat the cup down. "You don't like your sister's boyfriend," he said. "Why not?"

The woman busied herself with some dirty dishes that were next to the sink. "He isn't really a nice man."

"How do you know?"

"I've just always had a bad feeling about him."

"A feeling?" Tristan asked skeptically. "I've already talked to a psychic this week. I need more to go on than a feeling."

The blonde woman leaned back against the counter and crossed her arms. "There's something about him I don't trust. He's always vague about what he does for a living, and about where he goes sometimes," she explained. "Avery was thinking about breaking up with him anyway."

Tristan's eyes flashed. "She was? Why?"

"She was always talking about some guy from her work. I'm pretty sure she wanted to date him. I told her it was a bad idea to date someone you work with, but she said that wouldn't be a problem soon."

"What did she mean by that?"

Aubrey shrugged. "I don't know. She just wasn't worried about it."

Tristan passed her his card, asking her to call if she thought of anything else before they returned to the dining room.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Rory woke up later to the sound of her cellphone vibrating on the coffee table. She reluctantly reached out for it, exposing her arm that had been warmly resting under a blanket. "Hello?"

"Do you have something written up about Avery Fox?" James asked.

Rory blinked. "Who's Avery Fox?"

"Jane Doe. Were you asleep?"

"Maybe. They found out who she was? No one told me." She picked up her laptop from the coffee table and pressed a key to bring it out of hibernation.

"The police only just released a name, but I thought you might've already been tipped off and therefore knee deep in research."

Rory shook her head as she typed the woman's name into her search engine. "I didn't get any privileged information today." She rubbed her forehead and focused on the screen. "There're a lot of results for her name. Is she a city council member?"

"I was hoping you'd know that sort of information."

"Hold on," she grumbled. She clicked on the top article, which was when she found the name she was looking for. She gasped. "Oh my god. She's a reporter for the Post." She clicked the back button and scanned the other articles on the page. "I wonder what she was writing about."

"You just mentioned city hall."

"I know, but I mean specifically—like who or what."

"If reporters got murdered every time they made someone upset, there wouldn't be any of us left."

"But she wrote for city hall," Rory argued. "City halls are notoriously rife with scandal—embezzlement, extortion, bribery. There are an infinite number of ways for politicians to suck. And they probably don't want some spunky reporter nosing around."

"Sorry for trying to burst your bubble."

"I accept your apology," she said. "I'll write up something for the Sunday edition to send to you, and then I'm hitting the library—right after I get another load of laundry started."

"I'll be waiting with bated breath." He added, "For what you find, not your laundry."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later, Tristan and Mark strode through a newsroom full of grey cubicles. There was a buzz in the air not unlike that of the Daily News. Busy reporters were hunched over their computers typing diligently, no doubt rushing to meet deadlines. The detectives stopped when they reached an office, and tapped on the door. A middle-aged man in a white button down shirt and tie looked over the rims of his glasses to focus on the two men. When they showed their badges and introduced themselves, he gestured for them to enter his office.

"It must be bad news," Patrick Phillips, the metro editor of the New York Post said at the mention of one of his reporters. He shook his head. "Avery's mother called me, trying to track her down, but I hadn't seen her in a few days."

"She didn't call in sick?" Tristan asked.

The man shook his head again. "No. One of my photographers asked about her, he was worried, but I didn't hear from her until she e-mailed me." Patrick turned his attention to his computer and clicked around a few times, a frown of concentration on his face. "Here it is." He turned the monitor so the detectives could read the message.

Stevenson asked, "She resigned? Did you know she was planning to quit?"

Patrick shook his head and turned the monitor back. "I had no idea."

"So she didn't ask for references or give any indication she was getting a new job?" Tristan asked.

"No. This was it. And she never came to get her personal items from her desk. She was just gone."

"My wife would be remiss if I didn't ask," Tristan started, "what was Avery writing about?"

"She wrote for city hall."

"Did she make any enemies?"

Patrick shrugged. "We're journalists, sometimes we make people mad. If we made a big deal about it every time, we'd be calling you guys left and right."

"But has anyone complained about her lately?"

"Not to me."

Tristan commented, "I assume you aren't going to let us confiscate her computer?"

"You assume correctly," the editor said. "But you can look around her desk."

"We'd like a word with that photographer, too," Mark added as they got up, once again passing along a business card.

The editor led them back down the line of cubicles, pointing out Avery's before continuing down another aisle. He stopped when they'd reached the workspace of the photographer he and Aubrey Fox had mentioned.

"Todd," Phillips said. He jerked his head in the direction of Tristan and Mark. "The police want to talk to you about Avery."

Todd, who was wearing a t-shirt and jeans, and was viewing photos on a laptop, looked from his editor to the detectives, concern etched on his face. "Oh, okay. Did you find her? Is she okay?"

Patrick Phillips didn't answer, instead taking his leave, letting the detectives be the bearers of bad news.

Upon hearing what had happened to his co-worker, Todd's face paled. "She's dead?"

"Unfortunately. It looks like foul play," Tristan explained.

Todd looked down at his hands. "I was kind of hoping she'd be okay, you know? Like she'd just pop back in from a vacation she forgot to tell everyone about."

Stevenson asked, "When was the last time you heard from her?"

The man looked back up. "A couple days before her mom called looking for her. She came to work. We had lunch in the break room."

"Any indication something was up?"

He shook his head. "No, not at all. I mean, she jumped and quickly checked her phone every time she got a message, but everybody does that. And she's a reporter, so it could be a contact about a story."

"Did she ever mention getting a different job?" Tristan asked.

Their interviewee shook his head. "No, she never said anything. Everyone was surprised when she resigned all of a sudden like that." He muttered, "You should talk to her boyfriend."

"Why's that?" Tristan asked.

Todd said, "Something isn't right about that guy."

"So you've met him?"

"Yeah, a couple times, Avery brought him to company parties. I never liked him."

"Because you liked his girlfriend?"

"No, that's not it—well, not really. I don't know, I just don't trust him."

Warily, Tristan said, "You aren't the only one. Did Avery ever seem to feel that way about Sean?"

"No," Todd answered. "I think she worked too hard. She was too busy to notice."

"Her sister seems to think she was going to breakup with him anyway and get something started with a guy from work. Do you know anything about that?"

Todd stared. "She was? Did her sister say who the guy was? The guy from work?"

"No. Do you think it was you?"

"Maybe, we do flirt, and we talk about personal stuff. And if she was single I wouldn't hesitate to ask her out."

"But you're sure she never mentioned it to you? No hints?" Mark asked. "No pact to breakup with significant others so you could be together?"

Todd shook his head. "No. We didn't have any murder-suicide plans either, if you're wondering."

"What were you doing October twenty-eighth?"

"Hold on," Todd said, turning in his swivel chair to grab a file folder from an organizer on his desk. He flipped through a stack of photos that filled the folder. Checking the dates stamped in the corner, he pulled out one of a football game. He focused on the jersey's the players wore. "Let's see, the New England Patriots were warming up for a game." He picked up a schedule of games and added, "They were in Detroit. So that's where I was."

"We'll let you know if we need anything else," Stevenson said, ending the interview.

When they'd exited the building, Tristan's phone started to vibrate from his pocket. "DuGrey," he answered.

"She's a reporter," Rory hissed.

"Who's a reporter?" he asked.

"Avery Fox," she said. "Like you didn't already know."

"I may have heard something about it," he admitted.

"She made someone mad for her art and she paid with her life."

"And you call me dramatic," Tristan said as they went back out into the cold.

"What else could it be?"

"Oh I don't know, any myriad of things. You shouldn't jump to conclusions. How many times do I have to tell you?"

Not listening, Rory continued, "I've been here all afternoon, digging up everything Avery has ever written."

"Where is here?" he asked, unlocking his car doors and getting in.

"The library. Did you know she covered city hall?"

"I did not."

"Really?"

"No, not really. We just finished talking with the Post's version of Jimmy West."

"You did? So you agree, you think it had something to do with what she was writing for work," Rory said in a self-satisfied tone.

"I didn't say that. You know we talk to everyone—which includes her employer. Which happens to be a newspaper," Tristan said, starting the engine. Next to him, Mark turned the heat up. "That doesn't automatically mean her death was work related."

"But it's possible."

Tristan sighed in resignation. "Anything is possible."

"I knew it."

"I'd feel better if you sounded less excited about the prospect. It's borderline morbid."

"I'm not excited."

"Just really enthusiastic."

Rory went on, "Back when she was in college, she wrote about a bunch of the industries in the area that were polluting the air and the local river. So even back then she was holding big business accountable for their actions."

"Sounds like she's a real tree-hugger. But I doubt those businesses would wait this long to exact their revenge on her."

"I think it's still worth looking into," Rory said. "Leave no stone unturned, right?"

"Right," he agreed. "So why don't you keep digging from that angle, and I'll follow procedure as usual."

"What will you give me if I'm right?"

"What?"

"What's my reward if I'm right and you're wrong?"

"The satisfaction that you're better than me?"

"That isn't quite the incentive I was going for, but I guess I'll take it."

Tristan wrapped up the call quickly and turned his attention to his partner. "I think it's time we talk with this shady Sean Adams character."

"I was thinking the same thing." Mark went to work playing on the internet on his phone, searching for the business Aubrey had mentioned. When he found a match, he read off the address.

Fifteen minutes later, Tristan was searching for a place to park near a tall office building in Midtown Manhattan. It was another twenty minutes before he settled on illegally parking in a garage two blocks away that they walked through the lobby of the building. They took the first available elevator to the appropriate floor and followed the signs until they were at Sean Adam's office.

His receptionist turned from the filing cabinet she had pulled open when she heard them walk in. "Can I help you?"

"We'd like to speak with Mr. Adams," Tristan said.

The woman took a few steps over to her desk and bent down to look at her calendar. "Do you have an appointment?" she asked with a frown.

"No," he answered, showing her his badge.

"Oh, uh, well, he isn't in right now. He's out on a business call. But I can let him know you came by."

"We need to talk to him as soon as possible."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Not long thereafter, the detectives walked off the elevator and proceeded to the squad room. Their boss, Captain Meyer stepped out of his office and met them at their desks. "DuGrey, Stevenson," he greeted. "There's someone here to talk to you." He nodded over to one of the interrogation rooms, where a man was waiting for them at the table.

They hung their coats and scarves on their chairs before heading to the small room. Tristan made the introductions as they took a seat across from a dark haired man in a suit. "How can we help you?"

"I got a message from my secretary, you wanted to speak with me," the man answered.

"Oh," Tristan said. "Sean Adams?"

"Yes."

"Thanks for getting back to us so quickly."

"What is this about detectives?"

Tristan caught himself before knitting his brows in confusion. The question should have had an obvious answer, so rather than give it away, he asked, "What do you think it's about?"

"Since you're involved, I suspect something illegal has happened," Adams answered smoothly.

"Mm-hmm," Tristan said slowly. "It has to do with your girlfriend, Avery Fox." For a split second, he could have sworn the man's eyes softened in relief.

"Avery, of course." All concern now, Adams asked, "Has there been a break in her case? We've all been so worried."

"You could say that," Stevenson said, slipping a photo of the dead woman across the table.

"My God," Adams said. "What happened?"

"A car was pulled out of the Hudson the other night. Avery was in the trunk. Looks like she tried to escape."

"Who would have done this?" Adams asked, looking from one detective to the other.

Tristan answered, "We were hoping you could help us with that."

"Absolutely, whatever you need," the man said quickly.

"How long were you in a relationship with Avery?"

Adams looked up, counting. "Six—no, seven months."

"How serious would you say you were?"

"We weren't living together or anything, but I stayed over at her place a couple nights a week. We were exclusive."

"Did she talk to you about quitting her job at the Post?"

"She was looking into some other jobs, but she didn't have anything lined up yet. Not enough to quit the job she had."

"Was she unhappy at the Post?" Mark asked.

Sean shook his head. "I don't think so. She'd worked there for several years. She was just ready to move on to something else."

"Avery's mother reported her missing when she didn't return her calls. When did you think something might have happened to her?"

"She didn't answer my calls either, but I thought she was immersed in some story for work. If that was the case, I didn't want to bother her. Her mother called my office the next day, wanting to know if I'd heard from her."

Tristan tapped his finger on the table for a moment. "Were you having any problems?"

"What kind of problems?"

"Relationship problems."

"No. We were great. Why?"

"We heard Avery was thinking about breaking up with you."

Adams's face twisted into a scowl. "Who said that?"

"Not important," Tristan said. "Did you know anything about it?"

"No," Sean said, crossing his arms. "Someone misinformed you. She wouldn't dump me for someone else."

Stevenson asked, "How are you so sure?"

"I treated her well. Any woman would be lucky to have me as their boyfriend."

Tristan only let the corner of his mouth lift slightly. "You think so?"

"Yes. I took her to the finest restaurants in the city, we like all the same television shows," Sean said. "And she and I went to Greece over the summer. She had no reason to be anything but happy with me. You're wrong about this."

The detectives let their interviewee stew for a moment before Tristan asked, "Where were you October twenty-eighth?"

"What day of the week was that?"

"Thursday."

"I was at a bar with some friends of mine," he supplied.

"You're memory's good," Mark commented. "You don't need to check your calendar?"

"No. I know where I was that night."

"Okay. We'll need the address of the bar."

"This is ridiculous," Adams said before writing down the address requested on a sheet of paper offered. When he sat back again, he seemed to take a concerted effort to calm down. "You've talked with her mother already?"

"This morning," Mark answered with a nod.

"How was she?"

"She got bad news about her daughter, so you can probably imagine."

"She must be devastated. I should go see her." Sean started to get up and put on his coat. "Let me know if you need anything else," he said as he moved toward the door to let himself out.

"We'll be in touch," Tristan said, watching him leave.

When they were alone, Stevenson commented, "You know, he does give me a bad feeling."

"Yeah," Tristan agreed with a nod. "He's very smooth and debonair, but kind of slimy at the same time. Like he can be fake whenever he wants."

Mark continued, "But will probably turn on you if you cross him."

Tristan thought for a moment. "You know who he reminds me of?"

"You?"

He ruefully glared. "No. I was going to say my dad."

"I can see what you mean." Mark got up and headed for the door. "But I stand by my statement."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

"Okay," Rory said, pulling her grocery list notepad out of her coat pocket, along with a pen. "We need everything." Her eyes hungrily scanned an aisle full of non-perishables. "Maybe we should have had dinner first."

"What were we going to eat?" Tristan asked, pushing the cart beside her.

"Good point." Rory headed straight for the fresh produce, where everything looked delicious. She shoved her notepad into her pocket to free both hands, then helped herself to a plastic bag and started filling it with heads of broccoli. Then she noticed the Brussels sprouts and grabbed another bag without bothering to close the first one with a twist tie.

Tristan, having strolled over to the bakery for bagels and bread, approached in time to watch his wife greedily collect a few tomatoes. When she emptied her full arms into the cart, he arched a brow at her. "Stocking up for winter?"

"It all looks so good," she answered. "Do you want some fruit? Grapes sound good. Ooh, and bananas." She turned to hunt for the fruit and returned to the cart after succeeding. "Okay, what's next on the list?"

"Everything."

"Oh right. I can't believe I didn't make a real list today. I was just so busy at the library, I forgot."

They turned the corner and almost skipped the health food aisles, when Tristan stopped and pointed a thumb to the side. "You didn't need any flak seed?"

Rory scrunched up her nose and shook her head.

"So this new phase you're going through doesn't include organic food?"

"No."

"That's a relief," he said as they continued.

She followed along down an aisle of junk food, stopping so he could consider the choices of prepackaged cookies.

"What looks good?" he asked.

She quickly scanned the pictures of sugar coated treats. "Eh, whatever you want. Cookies aren't really on the list."

Tristan tried to snatch her notepad away, but she held tight. "It says 'everything'. Everything includes cookies."

"Fine. Get some. I'll be in the cereal aisle." One she was down said aisle, she contemplated whether she wanted shredded wheat or Cheerios. By the time Tristan joined her, she'd decided on both.

It took them thirty minutes to finish the rest of their grocery shopping. Rory was fairly certain she could have finished in twenty if Tristan wasn't along to slow her down, but she didn't complain out loud, as he was her ride. They found the shortest check-out line and joined, resigned to waiting in line for the same length of time it'd taken them to do their shopping.

A few registers down, a woman was struggling with a little girl who was having a tantrum. Rory glanced over with her arms crossed, tapping her foot in annoyance. She muttered, "Just give her the candy."

"What?" Tristan asked, looking up from a magazine he'd picked up from the stand.

Rory tilted her head toward the crying child, who'd only gotten louder.

He glanced over. "Oh, I didn't notice."

"How could you not notice? Everyone in the store noticed."

"I work a few feet from a holding cell that is sometimes occupied by crazy people," he said. "You learn to tune it out."

"Well," Rory said, filling him in, "she wants a piece of candy, and it will get her to be quiet. It's obviously a win-win."

Tristan smirked. "Yeah, and then she'll learn crying equals treat. It's a good lesson. A piece of candy now, a pony in a few years."

"It's just a piece of candy. It's not that big of a deal."

He smiled and looked back down at his celebrity magazine. "Okay."

Rory glared at him a second before inching forward in the line.

"Hey, what do you think of BLT's for supper?" he asked a couple minutes later, looking at the contents of their basket. "We have everything and it'll be easy."

"Fine," she answered, starting to think about bacon. Then, "I want mashed potatoes with mine. And maybe no tomatoes. Or lettuce." She thought about it some more, happy with her choice and added, "And no bread."

"We didn't get potatoes."

"I'll be right back."

A little later, they were arriving home. Once parked outside their building, they rounded the car to the trunk and each picked up two heavy reusable bags. Tristan was about to close the trunk, when Rory stopped him. "Hey, there's just one more. We can get it all in one load."

"Are you going to carry that last bag?"

"No, you can do it. You're strong."

He grudgingly hung the bag from his arm, muttering, "I feel like a pack mule."

"Come on, you take that bag and I'll put everything away. You're off the hook," she said as they headed for the door next to the art gallery.

"See, now that's how an award system should work."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Tristan sat his yellow legal pad on his desk after the briefing wrapped up. He clicked the end of his pen back and forth as he glanced around the squad room. The other detectives were going back to work at their desks, while the uniformed officers filed out to return to their floor.

At the next set of desks, the assistant district attorney was talking with a couple detectives about getting a warrant. Tristan leaned back in his chair to listen in. He heard Jacobs tell them the same thing he'd have told them when he heard them talking about their case over the weekend.

Jacobs abruptly turned and lifted the crook of his arm to shield a sneeze. After a coughing fit, he continued with what he was saying, his voice sounding pinched. Tristan pulled out a tissue from a box on his desk and stretched his arm out to offer it. The attorney took it and blew his nose. When Jacobs was finished, Tristan stood up and walked with him toward the hallway.

"You don't sound so good. Are you coming down with something?"

"I'm fine. It's just a cold," Jacobs said, slightly annoyed by the unwelcome companion.

"Are you taking medicine? What if you get worse?" Tristan asked. "What happens then?"

"What happens with what?"

"You have a trail coming up. What if you're too sick?" he asked.

"It's not that big of a deal," Jacobs said, harassed. He pressed the Up button to summon the elevator, and rolled his eyes when the detective followed him into the small space a moment later.

"Judge Wilson is a busy guy," Tristan said. "You can't expect him to reschedule for you. Will some other ADA get assigned to your case?" he asked. "Someone just walking in won't know what's going on. Is that a good idea?"

Jacobs stared at him blankly for a moment, then pulled his cellphone out of his pocket without a word and dialed. "It's Greg," he said. "I'm out. DuGrey wants the whole thing. He can have it."

Tristan's pulse started to beat harder and faster. It wasn't entirely comfortable. He frowned at the redheaded man as they got off the elevator at the next floor. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Fine," Jacobs said before ending his call. He unlocked his office door and turned back at Tristan. "It's all yours."

"What's all mine?"

"The trial." Jacobs made a show of brushing his hands together—washing his hands of the detective. "Finally, just what you've always wanted, and no one's standing in your way." He clapped a hand on Tristan's shoulder a bit roughly. "Don't blow it."

"I didn't ask for anything to be mine," Tristan argued.

The attorney ignored him. "Don't forget you and your dad are meeting with the judge this afternoon." He disappeared inside his office with Tristan left staring at the door.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Rory read through an article for a third time and highlighted one of the names mentioned. She also wrote the name on a growing list she'd been populating over the weekend.

"Are you reading every article that woman ever wrote?" Marie asked from her desk next to Rory's.

"All the ones I could track down. At her first job in New Hampshire, she was one of those reporters for the local news station who bothered public officials about how they were spending tax dollars." Rory continued, "Those reporters get in people's faces and expose their wrongdoing. Not everyone likes being held responsible for what they do. Someone might have been biding their time, waiting for the perfect opportunity to exact their revenge on the reporter who ruined them."

"That's deep," Marie said. "And what does Detective Husband say about this theory?"

"He's following procedure."

"So sticking with family and friends?"

"Pretty much." She muttered, "Amateur. He'll be sorry." Deciding she was finished dissecting the article, she turned it upside-down and added it to a stack at the edge of her desk. With her highlighter poised over the next piece, she paused and pondered a moment. "I wonder if Avery was investigating something that she hadn't written yet—in which case, wouldn't be in any of these."

"Something or someone from city hall?" Marie asked.

"Possibly." Rory thought about it some more. "I think I'll go down there tomorrow to sniff around. Maybe some of the other reporters know something." She nodded, liking the idea more by the minute. "I'll just pretend I'm there to report on city hall."

"Undercover investigation is always fun."

Rory grinned and nodded at her colleague.

"You know, with a dead reporter and the chance it was about her job," Marie said, "I think we all need police protection. We're all upsetting people, and putting our lives on the line."

Rory smiled and glanced over. "I think you're right. Suddenly I feel less silly about this fake name I use for the cop beat." She picked up her cellphone and speed dialed her husband.

"DuGrey," he answered.

"Hey, Marie and I were just talking about how dangerous it can be for reporters, what with this Post reporter getting killed, and all the people we make mad on a regular basis. So we think we need police protection."

"What?"

"You know, personal body guards. I would obviously get you out of convenience, but that leaves everyone else. Who do we need to talk to, to make this happen?"

"Are you serious?" Tristan asked. "I'm doing actual work here."

"Don't you care about our safety?" There was no answer, and she could no longer hear the precinct in the background. She looked down at her phone and saw the background picture. "I think he hung up on me," she said, setting the phone back down on her desk.

One of their younger colleagues, Kyle approached them. "Hey Rory, Jimmy said you have some notes on that story he assigned me last week—about some burglaries in Midtown."

Rory caught a whiff of Kyle's cologne and immediately wished he'd take a step back. "Yeah, I typed them up," she said. "Hold on." She clicked her computer mouse a few times, pulling up the document. "So you're feeling better this week?"

"Yeah, I'm as good as new."

Rory wished she could say the same. Her Sunday afternoon hadn't been the greatest. She thought she might have to call in sick today. Up until now though, she'd felt fine. Kyle's germs must have jumped over to her.

"It was pretty bad last week," he continued. "I thought I was dying. I think it was that bug everyone in Arts and Leisure had a couple weeks ago."

"Maybe," Rory said. It was just her luck for Kyle to pass it on to her. She hit print. "There you go, it's going to the printer."

"Thanks."

Her stomach started to churn. She wanted Kyle to get as far away as possible. "Jeez, did you bathe in cologne before you came to work this morning?"

"No," Kyle said with a frown, grabbing the front of his polo shirt and pulling it up to his nose for a sniff. "I didn't put that much on. Just a spritz." He turned to Marie. "Is it that bad?"

She shrugged and shook her head.

Rory stood up quickly and headed for the restroom before she lost her breakfast all over the newsroom.

"Good job, Kyle," she heard Marie say, "you made Rory sick."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Around mid-day, Tristan and Mark walked into a dimly lit sports bar. A few patrons were sitting at tables, waiting for their lunch orders. The detectives went over to the bar, where a blonde guy who looked like he was barely old enough to drink was wiping down the counter.

"Excuse me," Tristan said, showing his badge. "We're trying to verify the whereabouts of someone who said he was here the night of a crime."

"Oh, uh, okay," the kid said, putting his rag down below the counter.

"Do you remember, or have any record of Sean Adams being here on October twenty-eighth. It was a Thursday."

"He comes in here a lot with his buddies. Let me grab the record book. I'll check that night," he said, and then he went through a door that led to the kitchen. When he returned, he was behind an older man.

"What seems to be the problem officers?" the barkeep asked. The younger man stood in the background, folding his arms and frowning.

"No problem," Mark said. "We just need to check the alibi of a guy who said he was here one night."

"Sean Adams?"

"Yeah," Tristan said, repeating the date for the barkeep. He kept his eyes trained on the man, even though the other bar employee had snuck back into the kitchen.

"He was here," the man said confidently.

"You don't need to check the record book or anything?" Tristan asked dubiously. "It was a few months ago. Surely you can't remember who comes in every night."

"Sean's a good guy. He gives me good business. He and his friends come in every Thursday."

"Without fail, every week?" Mark asked.

"Every week like clockwork. All of his friends will tell you the same thing, if you want to ask them," the man said confidently. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

Out the corner of his eye, Tristan could see the first man reappear in the doorway with a book. He put his coat on, hiding the book inside, and disappeared in the back.

"Nope, that's it," Tristan answered. "Thanks." He and Mark turned to go then.

Sardonically, Mark commented, "I guess he alibis out then."

When they were back out in the cold, it was in time to see the blonde kid round the building from the alley.

He gestured with his head for them to join him, and walked a few steps away from the bar. When they caught up, he stopped to tell them, "He doesn't always come. That guy—Sean Adams. Sometimes it's just his friends." He pulled the book out of his coat and handed it over, then shoved his bare hands deep inside his coat pockets.

Tristan took it and flipped back to the day in question, holding down the page to keep it from flapping in the harsh wind.

"He and his friends have a tab they keep open when they're here. The guy is like James Bond, he has the same drink every time he's here. If there isn't bourbon on the rocks on their tab, it means he wasn't there that night."

"You're sure?"

He nodded. "I'm usually the one who makes it for him."

Mark asked, "Are you sure none of his friends ever get the same drink as him?"

"Only Adams. If any of his friends started drinking it, he'd probably switch to something else. He's a good tipper, but I don't know, there's just something about him." He pointed on the page. "There's his tab, it's under his name."

Tristan read through the itemized list of drinks. "No bourbon." He glanced up at the kid. "So he wasn't there?"

"Nope, not that night."

"Can we borrow this?" Tristan asked, closing the record book.

"Yeah, it's from a few months ago, so no one should notice it's gone."

"We'll get it back to you before the end of the day," he said. "Thanks a lot."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

That afternoon, Tristan drove around the block surrounding the courthouse a third time, looking for a place to park. He got more anxious as each second ticked by. He didn't want to be late, that would get him off on the wrong foot straight away. He finally decided to settle for a city parking garage two blocks away, where he had to pay for a spot. He quickly took his gun off his hip and hid it under his seat. Then he grabbed a file folder from the passenger side seat and hopped out of the car.

He hastily walked down the sidewalk, glancing at the entrance of city hall as he passed. One of the council members was standing on the stairs, talking to a group of reporters who'd congregated around him. Tristan recognized one as a reporter who used to work in the same building as the Daily News. She was an Asian woman with long shiny black hair, but Tristan couldn't remember her name, as she no longer worked at Channel 13.

When he got to the courthouse, he jogged up the stairs and went into the lobby. He had to stop at the building's directory to find the room number of the judge's chambers. As he rode an elevator to the second floor, his palms started to sweat. When the lift let him out, he looked both ways down the long hall. He did a double take when he saw Jacobs sitting in a chair outside one of the rooms. It was with strange relief that Tristan walked toward the familiar face.

"What are you doing here? I thought you were out," he said, sitting down in the empty chair beside the redhead.

"Did you really think the DA would let you run free?"

"That's what you said earlier."

"He isn't stupid. He wants me to be there for this meeting. It'll look a little funny for you to go in there by yourself. I'm supposed to vouch for you."

"Oh," Tristan said without much fight in him to argue. He wouldn't admit it out loud, but he didn't mind the backup. He glanced down the hall toward the elevator terminal. "Is my dad here yet?"

"No, but he still has five minutes."

Tristan drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. "The boyfriend of our victim has a shaky alibi," he said, looking for conversation to distract him. "All his friends and the bartender insist he was there the night of the crime, but it looks like they might be lying."

Jacobs nodded once. "Can you place him at the scene?"

"No, not yet."

"So not enough for a warrant."

"I know that," Tristan said impatiently. "I wasn't asking for one. I was just making conversation."

The other man nodded again. "Nervous chit-chat, got it."

"I'm not nervous."

Jacobs glanced out the corner of his eye, and seeing Tristan's knee bouncing up and down, said, "Sure."

When the detective stilled suddenly, Jacobs looked in the direction of the elevator to see Harrison DuGrey approaching. When he joined them, he nodded as greeting. "Gregory. Tristan."

"Sir," Tristan said as aloof as possible.

Harrison checked his watch and leaned a shoulder against the wall, content to wait in silence. They only had to wait a few minutes before the door opened and an old man took a step out.

"Are you all my four o-clock?"

"Yes," they all answered, Tristan sitting up straighter. He and Jacobs stood and followed Harrison into the judge's chambers.

They filed into the office, the three men standing in front of the desk, where the judge had sat to face them. He read a note in front of him and said, "I understand the prosecuting and defending attorneys are related." He glanced up for confirmation.

"That's right, Your Honor," Harrison said. "He's my son."

Judge Wilson zeroed in on Tristan. "I didn't know you were a prosecutor."

"I'm not," Tristan admitted. "I'm a detective for the NYPD."

"And you're trying a case?" the judge said, creases forming between his grey eyebrows.

"Yes," Tristan said timidly.

Judge Wilson asked Jacobs, "Is this some sort of new auditioning process the district attorney is using and I'm just now hearing about it?"

"Oh no. Everyone still has to go through three rounds of interviews before they even get to the DA if they're trying to get a job." Jacobs jerked his head toward Tristan. "He's not special."

At that, both DuGrey men shot him a quick scowl.

The judge looked down at the sheet of paper in front of him again and then focused on Harrison. "You practice in Hartford, correct?"

"Yes."

"What are you doing in New York?"

Tristan cocked his head toward his father, raising a brow.

"Pro bono work. This isn't the first case I've taken here. And I'm licensed in both states."

Tristan pursed his lips and barely suppressed an eye roll, looking back to the judge.

"I can't say I like any of this, father and son going mono-e-mono. It borders on attorney malpractice."

Harrison spoke up again, "Opposing attorneys who are related is a common conflict of interest."

Tristan pulled out some documents from the folder he brought with him and added, "In State v. Kelley, a familial relationship between attorneys didn't impair the defendant's right to legal assistance."

The judge took the offered papers and perused them.

Tristan continued, "There won't be any inappropriate communication between us," Tristan said. "We don't have a relationship. He's just another defense lawyer to me."

"Still," Judge Wilson said, "I have a bad feeling one of you is putting your personal interests ahead of your professional responsibilities." He looked from father to son, where his gaze lingered. "I'm leaning toward you, detective, since this isn't your profession."

"I can assure you, my responsibility is with the State," Tristan said. "I'm not getting anything out of this."

"And if I may interject, Your Honor," Jacobs said. "This isn't a new development for him. He's been a problem for me as long as I've known him. If he had his way, he'd do his job and mine."

The judge turned to stare at Tristan expectantly.

The blonde grudgingly nodded and slowly said, "He's right. I constantly interfere with his work." He kept his gaze steadily on the honorable judge, ignoring his father's smug smirk. As though it pained him greatly to say it out loud, he slowly added, "I want to argue a case in court."

The judge narrowed his eyes at Tristan, who did his best not to bristle. After considering them a moment, he said, "I don't have any control over the personnel of the district attorney's office." To Harrison, he said, "Have your client sign a waiver."

Tristan's heart beat faster, as relief washed over him at clearing the first hurtle.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

At home that evening, Rory was in her newly stocked kitchen. She was contemplating what to make for dinner as she walked past the sink. Her arm accidently brushed a precariously placed coffee pot, which then fell to the floor, crashing into pieces. She gasped in horror and stared down at the shards. "No." She carefully squatted down to pick up the pieces, using the largest piece to hold the others.

After a minute, she sniffled and wiped the corner of her eye on sleeve. "This is the saddest day of my life."

Once she'd picked up as much as she could, she pouted a little as she threw the broken pieces in the trash and retrieved the vacuum to clean the finer pieces of glass.

Tristan walked through the front door about an hour later, when Rory was mashing potatoes in a large pot at the kitchen island.

"Hey," he said, taking off his coat and gloves. "What do I smell frying?"

"Bacon," she answered.

"Is that a derogatory comment directed at me?" he asked, joining her in the kitchen. "That's offensive."

"No, it's what I'm making for dinner," she said, nodding over at slices of bacon sizzling on the griddle.

"With mashed potatoes," he said, watching her smash. "Again."

"Sorry. I just felt like it again. But I thought of you this time and made some chicken and a salad."

"Thank you," he said. He put his folders on the counter top. He went to the coffee maker and looked over at the now empty sink. "Where's the coffee pot?"

Guiltily, she said, "It jumped out of the sink and broke."

"Was it depressed?" he asked. "We could have gotten it help if we'd known."

She shook her head. "I knocked it out."

"Tonight of all nights there's no coffee to keep me up? That's not good."

"Oh, how did your meeting with the judge go?"

"I'm in," he answered. "And in a turn of events, Jacobs is out."

She stared. "What do you mean? You finally high-jacked the whole thing?"

Tristan shook his head and lifted his shoulders. "No, I didn't push him out. I only asked if he was sick and what would happen with the trail. He just backed out."

Without thinking, she asked, "Are you going to be able to do it? All on your own?"

"What do you mean?" he asked with a frown.

"Not that you can't, because you can. I'm sure you can," she said quickly. "It's just that, you've never argued a case at all, and now you're going to do it by yourself?"

He considered her question, tapping his fingers on the counter. After a minute he stopped and said, "I'm not going to think about it. I'm just going to do it."