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.

3. I Hate Everybody (But You)

Title: It's Five O'clock Somewhere

Chapter: I Hate Everybody (But You)

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

The older I get, the less time I want to spend with the part of the human race that didn't marry me. –Robert Brault

I Hate Everybody (But You)

Tristan reached the bottom of the stairs and rounded the corner to his desk. He gathered the papers that were scattered all around, shoving them in the file folders he was carrying back and forth from work every day. He stopped when he thought he heard a noise coming from down the hall. He frowned and listened closely. There was definitely a sniffle.

He picked up his things and walked quietly toward the kitchen. He found his wife at the edge of the living room, standing in front of the fish tank with tears running down her cheeks. His brows lowered in concern. "Hey, what's the matter?" he asked, reaching over to set his files on the kitchen counter and returning to put an arm around her shoulders.

She sniffled and pointed. "One of our fish died."

He turned his attention to the tank, and sure enough, one of the goldfish was floating belly up at the surface of the water. He hoped she hadn't noticed the other fish lying on the gravel at the bottom of the tank near a plant. He glanced down at her, making a mental note to find time for a trip to the pet store.

"What did we do wrong?" she asked. "We fed them and changed the water."

With his free hand, Tristan turned off the tank light. "It was probably just his time. I'm sure he had a good long life."

"But we haven't had him very long," she protested. Her face contorted and she turned to him and buried her face in his chest.

"Yeah, but we don't know how long he was at the pet store before we got him," he reasoned. "He might have been there a long time and we just bought him at the end of his life."

"You think so?" she asked, lifting her head to look up at him.

"I do," he said. "Plus, he probably came from one of those fish mills anyway." He steered her into the kitchen, looking for something to distract her. His first instinct was to make coffee, but that was out of the question, considering the broken pot. He made another mental note.

He grabbed a napkin and handed it to Rory so she could dry her eyes and blow her nose. "Thanks," she said, taking a seat on one of the stools. "It's just a little sad."

"Don't worry, we'll get a new fish, like we always do," he said, going to the refrigerator. "Do you want some bacon?"

She scrunched up her nose and shook her head. "No. Toast would be fine."

"Toast it is," he said, pulling out the necessary appliance from a lower cabinet and getting the bread from the pantry. He put a couple slices in and got the butter and a knife. He slid both over to Rory, then checked his watch. "I need to get going. Will you be okay?" He walked around to her side of the island and stroked her hair, looking down at her with furrowed brows.

"Yeah," she said with a nod, wrapping her arm around his waist. "Thanks for making me toast."

"You're welcome," he said. He leaned in to give her a kiss and picked up his file folder before putting on his coat and scarf.

He was out the door, and within twenty minutes he was sitting at his desk at the precinct. "I want to go over your testimony during lunch today," he told his partner, who had not yet sat down.

"Fine," Mark said, unbuttoning his navy suit jacket and taking a seat.

"Oh, and I have to stop by the pet store before I go home today. Help me remember."

"Did your fish die again?"

"Yeah, one of them. And I think the other one isn't long for this world. The water change must have freaked them out." Tristan shook his head. "I don't know what Rory's deal is, but I found her crying in front of the fish tank this morning. They die pretty regularly, so I don't know why she's taking it so bad this time." He added, "I just hope she doesn't give me whatever's been going around the Daily News all winter."

Mark, after a pause, glanced up. "She's been getting sick?"

"Yeah, along with the rest of the metro staff."

"When?"

"I just said, all winter."

"That isn't what I meant."

"What?" Tristan asked, glancing up vaguely.

Mark shook his head. "Never mind." Changing the subject, he said, "We need to go have a chat with Sean Adams, see what he has to say about his alibi. Maybe we'll get lucky and he'll lawyer up."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

"What are you reading now?" Marie asked, passing behind Rory, who was sitting at her desk in the newsroom with more articles in front of her, highlighter in hand.

"City hall stuff," Rory answered. "I'm going down there today to snoop around, so I have to look like I belong there. I won't be able to sell it if I don't know anything about city politics."

"Oh yeah, your investigation," Maria said, sitting down at her own desk and taking a sip of her coffee. "What happened to those articles you were looking into from when Avery was writing about pollution?"

"Eh, she wrote about that stuff ages ago," Rory said flippantly. "I think we all knew that was a long shot. The city hall angle is much more current and plausible."

"What about the person on staff we have to actually cover city hall?"

"Julie?" Rory asked, stopping what she was doing to look up. She scanned the newsroom, zeroing in on a young blonde woman a few desks down. "Hey Julie."

The girl turned to Rory. "Yeah?"

"Were you planning on going down to city hall today?"

"Yeah," Julie answered with a nod. "There's a subcommittee meeting at one, and I was hoping to talk with Councilwoman Maureen Glover about her proposed city ordinance before that."

"Could I do it instead?"

"Instead of what?"

"Instead of you," Rory said. "I'm getting pretty deep into a murder investigation, and I want to sniff around city hall." A thought hit her. "Hey, you probably knew Avery Fox from covering the same beat. Do you know anything about her?"

The girl shrugged. "Not really. I didn't talk to the other reporters that much. You might want to try that Asian chick who used to work for Channel 13 though. I've seen them talking a few times."

"Does Asian chick have a name?"

"Wendy something."

"Ugh, Wendy Lu," Marie said from Rory's other side.

"Oh right. Her," Rory said with matched enthusiasm. "I guess it won't hurt to talk to her."

"But what am I supposed to do today if you go to city hall?" Julie asked uneasily.

Rory looked back over to her. "Work on your next story," she suggested. "Or you know, go get a coffee and take a break. You can still write the article, I'll just get the notes for you. It'll be a collaborative effort."

"Should we ask Jimmy if it's okay first?" Julie asked, creases forming between her eyebrows. She glanced over at their editor's office door.

"Oh don't worry about him," Rory said with a wave of her hand. "If he asks you anything, just send him to me."

"Uh, okay," the young woman said. "I guess I'll just forward you the agenda for the meeting—if you want to prepare," she said, returning to her computer.

"Great, thanks," Rory said, spinning her chair back to her desk.

Marie gave her colleague a sidelong glance. "I guess you didn't catch whatever Kyle had last week. He thought he was dying. You're perfectly fine."

"I guess I had a different bug," Rory said. "Either that, or he was exaggerating. Let's face it, men are babies. All it takes is a sour throat and they're lying on the couch, asking you to make soup."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

It was mid-morning before the detectives tracked down Sean Adams. The trip to his office was once again futile, and required some cunning persuasion to get his secretary to tell them where he was. They walked into a Midtown restaurant and told the hostess who they were looking for. She led them through the dining room, weaving their way through tables of businesspeople on their lunch break.

Sean caught sight of them before they made it to his table, where he was dining with another man in a suit. He stood and intercepted the two men before they could reach him.

"Detectives," he greeted. "Have you made a break in Avery's case?"

"Actually," Tristan said, "we need to know where you really were the night she died."

"I already told you, I was at the bar with some friends."

Tristan shook his head. "Evidence suggests you're mistaken—or lying. You weren't there that night."

"What evidence?" Sean asked. "I assure you, I'm not lying. I was at the bar. I go there every week."

"But you didn't order your drink," Mark said. "Bourbon on the rocks?"

Adams looked unimpressed. "So? Do you think I drink the same thing every time?"

"That's what we heard."

"From whom?"

"That's not important."

"Well I'm sorry, but someone is remembering incorrectly. Perhaps they're confusing me with someone else." Adams continued, "I'm sure if you go back to the bar, everyone will tell you they saw me there that night."

"See, that's the thing," Tristan said. "Almost everyone did say you were there—all your friends swore they saw you. But we got some conflicting information."

"Someone lied then."

"That's exactly what we were thinking," Mark said with a smirk.

"Check again, I'm sure whoever got it wrong will think really hard and remember me being there," Adams said again. "Now if you'll excuse me, detectives, I'm in the middle of a business meeting."

Before he could get away, Tristan said, "About that, what is it you do for a living?"

"I consult."

"About what?" Stevenson asked.

"Business. My clients have problems. I fix them."

"Can you be any more specific?" Tristan asked.

"No," Sean said, leaving without another word to return to his table.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later that day, Rory stood amongst a group of journalists outside the office of a city council member. She sized up the other reporters, recognizing a couple from local news stations. They eagerly waited with their cameramen and notecards, ready to attack, it appeared to Rory.

She did her best to look like she belonged there. It was like her first day on a new beat, or starting at a new school. She didn't want to stick out. She had to admit though, it was unlikely anyone would guess she was really there to investigate a homicide. Plus, she had a cover story.

Another reporter joined their ranks at Rory's side. She had long shiny black hair, and with a small jolt of anticipation, Rory recognized her as Wendy Lu—formerly of Channel 13, which shared a building with the Daily News. If Rory wasn't mistaken, Wendy hadn't worked there in a year or two. She got confirmation when Wendy bent down to pull a microphone out of a duffle bag marked with a number '8' on every side. When she looked up and saw the brunette watching her, her brows furrowed.

"You cover city hall?" Wendy asked.

"No," Rory answered. "I'm just filling in for Julie. She's sick this week. Something's been going around the newsroom."

The Asian woman looked smug and disinterested all at once. "You still work at the Daily News?"

"Yes," Rory said, slightly defiant. "Is there something wrong with that?"

"No," Wendy said with a shrug. "Most journalists would have moved on by now, that's all. But there's no shame in staying where you're comfortable."

Rory's brows knit involuntarily. "It was my choice to stay. I take the editor's place whenever he's out of the office." She raised her chin an inch. "And I cover the United Nations. So I have more responsibilities now."

"Hey, you don't have to get defensive."

"I'm not."

"Okay." Wendy smirked.

Rory shook her head slightly and turned back to the closed office door. She was starting to remember why she never cared for the other reporter.

The door swung open suddenly, and a short stalky woman wearing a pantsuit with a purple shell under her jacket walked out. As she made her way down the hallway, the reporters started asking questions and walking with her. It was no United Nations press conference or crime scene where the police knew her, so Rory hastened to keep up. It'd been years since she last followed a public figure around. She wasn't in a hurry to return to the horse and pony show. Still, she had promised notes to her co-worker, so she dutifully scribbled down the councilwoman's answers and took out her copy of the agenda as she found a seat for the meeting.

A few council members spent an hour and a half discussing the details of a new city ordinance, and when the meeting concluded, the reporters fired off some more questions. Julie had written a few questions at the bottom of her agenda, and Rory added a couple of her own, which she asked—when she got the chance, that is. The other reporters barley paused a beat.

When the councilmembers stood to leave, Rory glanced at her constituents, wondering if any of them knew anything about Avery Fox. Unfortunately, Julie had mentioned Wendy. More, she was the only one Rory had rapport with. Now wasn't the time to be picky, so Rory slowly got her things together while Wendy prepared her report—probably for the evening news, as it wouldn't make the mid-day slot. The reporter read her self-prepared script a few times before reciting it in front of the camera.

"Let me do that again," she told the cameraman, who counted down from three again. She took three more takes before she was content, and then started to put her things away.

When she was finished, and stood back up, Wendy turned and spotted Rory, who pretended not to be watching. "Do you need something?" she asked.

"Oh, uh, no," Rory said quickly. "Nice report. I see you're quite the perfectionist. I am too."

Wendy stared.

Rory rambled on, "Uh, I was actually just thinking I haven't seen you in—what is it—a year or two? So I was wondering if you wanted to catch up."

"Catch up?"

"Yeah, catch up. You know, two old friends—or, uh, acquaintances—sitting down and chatting about the current state of their lives." She pointed in the general direction of the elevator terminal. "I saw a coffee shop downstairs next to the lobby." She added, "If you have some time."

Wendy glanced from side to side, as she put her duffel bag over her shoulder. "Uh, okay," she said slowly.

"Great," Rory said, leading the way to the elevator.

"It's Veronica, right?" Wendy asked.

"Yeah," Rory answered. It was the pseudonym her mother came up with for her to use on her crime reports. She had never thought it was necessary, but was more comfortable under the current circumstances.

After a quiet ride down, they joined the line at the coffee stand and looked up at the menu behind the counter. Not wanting anything with a bunch of sweet caramel or whipped topping, Rory ordered a plain coffee. Behind her, Wendy got a latte.

Rory went over to a table near the window and took a seat, hanging her coat over the back of her chair. "So how have you been?" she asked pleasantly, once their drinks were served.

"Fine," Wendy answered, keeping her coat on.

"I've been fine too," Rory said, even though she hadn't been asked. "I'm still at the Daily News, as you noticed." When the Asian woman made no attempt to converse further, she continued, "So, Channel 8, huh?"

"Yeah, I've been there for two years."

"Do you like it there?"

"It's a better position than I had at Channel 13," Wendy said. "I don't have to do those stupid fluff pieces." She muttered, "Or cutesie up stories with puns."

"That's good," Rory said with a nod. "Sounds like an improvement." She took a long gulp of coffee to compensate for the lack of conversation. When she put her cup down, she asked, "Did you hear about that reporter from the Post that was found dead last week? I understand she wrote about city hall, so maybe you knew her—Avery Fox."

Wendy picked up her stick and quickly stirred her latte. "They found her? I thought she went missing."

"She did. But they found her, and it turns out she was killed last fall. So you did know her?" Rory pressed.

"We were acquainted."

Rory let that sink in for a moment, not wanting to sound too eager. "Do you know if she was writing anything special? Maybe investigating something at city hall?"

Wendy shrugged. "I'm not sure. I don't really read the Post. It's so sensational—like the tabloids," she said. "But you know about that, the Daily News is the same way."

Rory's brows moved closer together. "Just the format, not the content. We report legitimate news," she said. "And, our articles get quoted by national news anchors all the time—even in The New York Times."

Wendy rolled her eyes.

Rory hated how her defenses always went up when she talked to Wendy. It was like it didn't matter what she did, the other woman would always look down her nose at Rory. "Anyway, you journalists reporting city politics, that's important news. Do you guys ever make people mad?"

"Don't we all?" Wendy asked rhetorically. "There's always someone trying to hide something or cover up a misdeed."

"So do you think that's what happened to Avery? She made someone angry?"

Wendy's lazy gaze focused on Rory. "You're sure interested in Avery," she commented. She gave Rory a blank stare. "Oh my God, you're still writing on the police beat."

Rory's brows lowered. "What's wrong with that?"

A small smile played at Wendy's lips, and she said, "Nothing. Is that why you're really here?"

"I'm here to sit in for a colleague," Rory said, holding tight to her alibi.

Wendy took a long sip of her coffee and glanced out the window before she asked, "Do the police know anything about how she died?"

"She was in the trunk of a car that was pulled from the Hudson River," Rory answered. "She was dead for a few months."

"Any suspects?"

"They're looking into family and friends," she answered vaguely so as not to hand over information to anyone over at Channel 8. Although, it was also all she knew. She should probably make a call when she got back to the newsroom, she thought.

Wendy slowly stirred her latte with her stick again before she put it back on her napkin. "There were a couple city council members Avery did seem interested in."

Rory perked up. "Oh yeah? Which ones?"

"Thaddeus Black and Peter Jacobs," Wendy said. "I saw her waiting outside their offices before and after council meetings."

"Was she investigating something on them?"

Wendy shrugged. "I don't know. Could be."

It was worth looking into, Rory thought, repeating the two names to herself over and over so she wouldn't forget. She didn't want to write their names down outright in front of the other reporter.

Wendy sat back in her chair. "You were really good at the cop beat, weren't you?"

"Yes," Rory said slowly, caught off guard at the compliment.

"Well of course you were. You had quite an in with the police, if I remember correctly."

"I have a contact, yes," Rory said uneasily. She took a sip of her coffee, hoping the other woman would drop it before insinuating anything.

The ring on her left finger caught Wendy's eye. "You got married."

Rory nodded and glanced at her ring. "Yup. A couple years ago."

"Congratulations," Wendy said. "So how does that work?"

Rory frowned. "How does what work?"

"How do you keep your police source happy without your husband finding out?"

There it was. Rory ground her teeth, her jaw was clenched so tight. Deciding not to get upset by anything Wendy had to say to her, she calmly took another sip of her coffee. "It works out pretty well for him, actually."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

At his desk that afternoon, Tristan drew a line through a sentence of a paragraph he planned on being his opening statement. He tapped the end of his pen on his desk as he read through it without the part he'd just deleted. Not liking it, he crossed out another sentence and wrote one to replace it.

Across from him, Mark lifted up one of the record book pages they'd copied from the bar where Sean Adams said he was. "Look at this," he said, handing it across the desks.

Tristan took the offered papers his eyes went straight to the places his partner had highlighted. "That kid was right, Adams does tip well."

"Yeah, even on the nights he isn't there."

"Maybe the bar has excellent service," Tristan said.

"Or maybe it's hush money."

"I wonder what Adams wants to keep quiet." He shook his head. "I wish we had his financials."

"I wish we knew what kind of consulting he did with his clients," Mark said. "His website isn't very informative. It's really vague."

"Just like Avery's sister said. Not that it makes him guilty of anything."

After a couple minutes, Tristan's attention wandered back to the trial case. He'd been trying to contact a witness all morning without luck. He glanced over at his partner. "I think my dad has a witness who won't talk to me," he said. "Could you try to call her to set something up? Her name is Janice Summers. Maybe she'll talk to you."

"Fine."

"Just go over the facts."

"Do you want to be there for it, if I get a hold of her?"

Tristan shook his head. "I have some other things to work on."

There was a brief pause. Then Mark said, "Okay."

Tristan returned to his statement and read through it again, mouthing along in practice. He shook his head impatiently. He wasn't sure of himself. He needed someone to tell him whether or not he was on the right track. He rolled his eyes at the first person who came to mind. It was only out of proximity that he thought of him, not because Tristan would ever want to ask him for anything.

Conceding to the fact no one else was around, Tristan picked up his sheet of paper and got up, heading toward the elevator terminal. Not patient enough to wait, he went to the stairwell and took them two at a time up to the next floor. He went to the office door of the assistant district attorney and knocked. Without waiting for admittance, he went in and sat down in one of the chairs in front of the desk.

Greg Jacobs was busy typing on his computer and didn't look away from the screen. In acknowledgement of the disruption, he said, "Where did you learn to barge in whenever and wherever you want? You can't do it when you're working. And I'm sure your parents taught you better."

"Can you read through this?" Tristan asked. He sat the paper with his writing on the desk.

Jacobs turned so his shoulders were square, facing Tristan. He didn't touch the paper though, nor did he look at it. He kept his eyes on the detective. "What are you asking me to do?"

"I just said, read through that and let me know if it sounds all right."

"No, I mean in the broadest sense, what are you asking of me?"

Tristan stared impatiently, then narrowed his eyes questioningly.

"I'll give you a hint," Jacobs said. "It starts with an 'h'. You're asking for my . . ." he said, hanging onto the last word for Tristan to fill in the blank, his brow arched expectantly.

"You and I have never had the kind of relationship where we finish each other's sentences," Tristan reminded him.

"Help," Jacobs said impatiently. "You want my help."

"I don't want it."

"I know, and that makes it even better. You need it." Jacobs nodded his head. "After all these years of being a pain in the ass, you're not the hot shot you thought you were. You need my help. And here I thought you knew it all."

Tristan clenched his jaw.

Sardonically, Jacobs said, "Oh how the tables have turned."

Tristan tried to reach over and snatch the document away, but Jacobs was faster, picking it up and holding it out of reach. "You could just say no," Tristan muttered.

"I didn't say I wouldn't," Jacobs said. "I just want to know what I'm doing."

Tristan took a breath and counted to ten, trying his best to retain his composure. A tiny voice in the back of his head whispered about getting what he deserved . . . something along the lines of getting treated the way he had treated others. It was coming back on him now.

First his dad, now Jacobs, Tristan thought. It was too much smug self-satisfaction all around. The little voice reminded him it was usually a trait he walked around with himself. Surely he wasn't as annoying though.

Tristan steadily—if reluctantly—looked the other man in the eye. Slowly, he said, "I need your help."

The redhead smirked and put the paper back on the desk in front of him. Before he read it though, he said, "You know how Clarence Thomas broke seven years of silence to say something about a lawyer—something about how the guy wasn't any good just because he went to Yale?"

Tristan shrugged. "Yeah."

"He probably wasn't talking about you," Jacobs said, feigning a reassuring tone. "I mean, I can't say for sure, but it's very unlikely."

Tristan narrowed his eyes and looked away.

Finally reading what Tristan wrote, Jacobs didn't get very far before he sighed heavily and picked up a pen and drew a line through a word, and then wrote above it.

Tristan defensively sat up taller and gawked over the desk, trying to see what had been crossed out. "What?"

"Nothing. Just your wording."

"What's wrong with it?"

"It's too technical." Jacobs looked up at him. "Come down from your ivory tower. Your job is to educate the jury, not impress Daddy with the legal vocabulary you remember from law school."

Tristan scowled. "That isn't what I'm trying to do."

"Then keep it simple stupid. You did the same thing when you were on the witness stand last summer. Use words everybody knows."

"Fine, I'll be sure to dumb it down."

"Great," Jacobs said, continuing to read. After he'd crossed out a few more words and phrases that needed simplifying, he handed it back to Tristan. "How's everything else coming along?"

"Okay, I think," Tristan answered. "I was thinking who my dad will probably use as witnesses, and one of them won't talk to me."

"Did you send letter?"

"No, I just called. I don't have much time before the trial starts."

"You should send a letter next time—have your request in writing."

"Okay," Tristan said slowly. "I'm having Stevenson try to meet up with her."

Jacobs stared for a second. "Are you?"

"Yeah." Tristan felt paranoid by the question. "Was that wrong?"

"Nope. It's the right thing to do. What are you going to do if she doesn't talk with you guys before the trial?"

It seemed like a quiz question to Tristan. He answered, "Use her bias for the defense against her."

Jacobs nodded. "Good."

Tristan couldn't help but relax slightly at the positive feedback. Feeling as though he had an opportunity, he remained seated to discuss a few more things he was unsure about.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Meanwhile, Rory stepped off the elevator at the twenty-first precinct and walked out to the squad room. She went over to her husband's workspace to find his desk unoccupied, so she sat down in the empty chair next to his partner instead and started unbuttoning her coat.

"Hey, where's that guy?" she asked, jerking her head toward the chair with Tristan's winter outerwear draped over the back, as well as his charcoal suit jacket hanging over an arm. "He isn't answering my calls."

Mark glanced up briefly toward Rory and then desk across from him. He lifted a shoulder. "Upstairs, I guess." He went back to whatever he had in front of him. "He was here working—not on our work—and was shaking his head and muttering to himself, when he got up and left. He didn't tell me where he was going."

"He's been muttering to himself at home too," she said. "And staying up late. I don't know how he can function. All I want to do is hibernate all winter."

"Sleepy?" Mark asked.

"Yeah. I think it's the short days of winter."

"Ah." He went on, "I heard you had a death in the family. My condolences."

She stared for a second, and then blinked. "What?"

"Your goldfish."

"Oh, right. Yeah, one of them died today. I think the other one might be sick too. He wasn't looking good. I've never been able to nurse them back to health after they lay down." Rory opened her bag and pulled out a notebook. "So, did you guys learn anything new today?"

The pen in Stevenson's hand stopped and he raised his brow at her. "Anything new with what?"

"Your case. Avery Fox," she reminded him. "Do you have any more suspects or leads?"

The corner of his mouth curved ruefully. "No comment."

"What do you mean, no comment? Nothing new?"

"I mean I have nothing to tell you."

"But I need an update. I haven't heard from Tristan all day, and he hasn't told me the latest."

"Good for him."

Rory frowned. "Come on, we're friends."

"So?"

"Good friends," she persisted. "In fact, Tristan just said the other day he thinks of you as a brother, which kind of makes me your sister-in-law."

"Kind of, but not really."

"Either way, we're close. I'm closer to you than anyone else in this room at the moment," she said, gesturing around her to all the desks belonging to other detectives.

"I think close is a relative term."

"I found some leads today," she told him matter-of-factly. "Good leads. If you tell me what you know, I'd be willing to trade information."

"Sorry, I leave the bartering to the lawyers."

Rory stared at him for a moment, waiting for him to admit to joking around. When he didn't, she asked, "You really aren't going to tell me anything?"

"That's correct."

"But—" Rory stopped and her shoulders dropped.

Mark smiled at her pleasantly. "Did you assume I would?"

"Maybe. I already cultivated a source," she whined. "And as his partner, doesn't that make you a source by association?"

"I don't think that's how it works, but I'm not a journalist." With a quizzical expression, he asked, "Cultivating a source? Is that what you called that?"

"The rest wasn't on purpose," she insisted. "It just happened on accident."

"If it makes you feel any better, I'm pretty sure he was always going to tell you way too much. If he didn't have you, he'd be trying to get you, probably by whatever means necessary."

"And you think I'd trade a date for information?" Muttering to herself, she said, "I'm sick of people saying that today."

Mark lifted a shoulder. "I don't know, maybe." He thought about it for a moment, and his eyes glazed over. "I just imagined what it might be like if you lasted four years without giving in," he said. "For my sake, I'm glad you caved sooner rather than later. I don't think I could have taken it." He blinked a few times, shaking himself out of his stupor.

Rory pressed on, "I know you don't generally care for reporters, but I thought by now you'd have softened."

Mark grinned again. "Because of you?"

"Well, yeah."

"That's cute."

"It's not like I thought I changed your opinion of all reporters. Trust me, I don't like all reporters. But I'm not all reporters. I'm just me."

"You say that like you're harmless."

"I am."

"You want to be a harmless journalist?" he asked. "I didn't think there were any reporters out there who wanted to be called harmless. Isn't that kind of an insult in your business?"

"Okay," Rory said, trying to gain patience. "You're thinking in very black and white terms. Like I said, I'm not talking about all reporters—I can't stress that enough. I'm just talking about you and me. We know each other on a personal level, not just professional. There's some trust there."

"So you'd like the personal relationship to reap professional benefits," he said. "That's not what a good friend does. Friends don't use friends."

Rory crossed her arms, brows protruding out more than they already were. "That isn't what I'm saying."

"I know, but you still implied it. And I then read between the lines. I'm really good at that." He grinned again. "I always knew there was a reason you and I didn't get together—other than DuGrey being an obvious obstacle."

"You took me to dinner once," Rory said indignantly, narrowing her eyes at him.

"Yeah, but I didn't want to," he said. "And since you brought it up, why did you accept?"

She tried to think back while keeping her scowl in place. "I don't know. I can't remember."

"I think it was to make DuGrey jealous. I feel kind of used."

"You can't retroactively feel used," she argued. "It doesn't work like that. It's too late."

"I'll have to check the statute of limitations on that one."

A figure entering the squad room caught Rory's attention. "Thank God you're here," she told her husband as he approached. She scrambled to the seat next to his desk. "What's the latest on Avery Fox's case?"

Tristan glanced at her distractedly, slowing down without stopping. He jerked his head toward Mark. "Ask him. I need to talk to the captain."

Rory's jaw dropped as she watched him continue to the office, then turned back to Stevenson, who was smiling as he returned to his work.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

The next morning, Tristan was listening to someone on the other end of his phone. The kid from the bar—Andy—wanted to speak with the detectives.

When he'd finished the call and told Mark about it, his partner commented, "I guess we'll wait to hear what he has to say before we go talk with his boss again."

Within thirty minutes, Andy walked into the precinct in the same coat he'd been wearing the last time they saw him, timidly looking around for the two familiar faces. Tristan, with his view of the entrance, waved him over. He rolled around and gestured for the young man to sit in the chair next to Mark's desk. "What did you want to talk about?"

"I was wondering," Andy started, "did you guys talk to Robbie again?" he asked, referring to the older barman.

"Yeah," Mark answered. "We asked him about Sean Adam's alibi again, to see if he'd change his answer."

"I'm guessing he didn't," Andy said, running a hand through his blonde hair.

"Nope."

"Did you tell him what I said?"

Tristan rocked his head back and forth. "We implied we knew something. But we didn't tell him you talked to us. Why?"

"I got fired this morning."

Stevenson asked, "Did he give you a reason?"

Andy shrugged. "He said something about attendance, but I've only called off twice since I've worked there, and I was legitimately sick both times. Other than that, I'm never even late. I thought it might have something to do with Sean Adams instead."

Tristan reached back to take a sheet of paper from his desk and asked, "When you said he tips really well for his drinks, what did you mean by that? How much did he usually give you?"

"Twenty, at least," Andy said. "More if it was later in the night, after he'd had a few. He's given me fifty a couple times."

"But never hundreds at a time?" Mark asked, his brows lowered in concentration.

Incredulous, Andy answered, "No."

Tristan pointed to a highlighted line from the record book. "So you don't know what this is about?"

The younger man read the triple digit number at the end of the tab and his jaw dropped. He shook his head. "No. Is that a tip? I've never seen any of that, and we divide them up evenly at the end of the night." Andy looked from one detective to the other. "Did that guy leave that much every time?"

"It looks that way," Tristan answered. "Even when he wasn't there, he paid a few hundred dollars extra."

"I knew there was something shady with that guy," Andy said, shaking his head. "What was he paying for?"

"That's what we want to find out today," Mark said.

"I guess I might have said he was there if I knew about that," Andy admitted, nodding his head at the page from the record book.

After the detectives had shown the young man out of the precinct, they went straight to the bar. Taking a second for their eyes to adjust to the dim light, they walked over to the counter and asked one of the patrons if they'd seen the barman they were looking for. They were directed to a table in the back room.

They found the man, Robbie, taking a lunch order from a couple. When he was finished and looked up to see the detectives for a third time, his demeanor quickly changed. "What do you want now?" he asked, walking back to the main part of the bar and stepping behind the counter. He ripped the top sheet of paper of his notepad off and handed it to someone through a window to the kitchen. "I already told you, Sean Adams was here that night, just like he is every week."

"We aren't here to check up on that again," Tristan said reassuringly.

"Where's that younger guy?" Mark asked, looking around.

"Andy?" Robbie asked. "He's sick today."

"Flu?"

"Cold. He's all congested."

"How many times would he have to miss work before you fired him?" Tristan asked.

Robbie's face paled. "Not many. I can't have employees who are always missing work."

"How long has he been working for you?"

"Three years."

Mark said, "Twice in three years isn't that much. Surely you wouldn't be able to fire him for that?"

Robbie clenched his jaw.

"Are you sure he's sick?" Tristan asked. "Or was he becoming a liability? I bet you don't want to lose good business because of him."

"I don't know what you're talking about," the barkeep said, wiping down the counter unnecessarily.

"I guess if Sean Adams was going to take his four hundred dollar tips somewhere else, I might get rid of the employee upsetting him, too," Mark said casually.

Robbie's eyes flashed at the detective. "I knew Andy was the one to talk to you."

"You admit Adams was paying you extra?" Tristan asked.

"I didn't say that."

Mark informed him, "You didn't have to. What was he paying you for? A permanent cover story?"

Robbie's eyes darted from one detective to the other. "I don't have to tell you anything."

"You aren't a suspect for anything," Tristan reminded him. "You're just obstructing justice—nothing a subpoena can't get around, if you want to do it that way."

The barman seemed to consider this for a moment, but he shook his head. "I'm not saying anything."

Tristan frowned. "Are you scared of this guy or something? You seem more loyal to him than anyone else. Is it really worth it?"

Robbie crossed his arms and kept his frown steadily on the detectives, who looked at each other and gave up for the time being.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

As the detectives walked toward the building back at the precinct a short while later, weaving through the other parked cars, Tristan readjusted his scarf to protect his neck against the cold wind. He felt his phone vibrating somewhere under his coat, so he dug it out to answer, "DuGrey?" He listened to his wife's request that he come home for lunch.

"I was going to meet with the medical examiner during my break," he told her.

But upon hearing what she had to say, Tristan suddenly stopped, intrigued and alert. "Uh, I'll be right there." He stuffed his phone into his pocket and turned to his partner, who'd stopped a couple steps ahead of him when he realized Tristan was no longer following.

"I have to go home," he said. When Mark frowned, Tristan quickly added, "For lunch. Rory wants to have lunch with me." He headed back to his black Camaro. "I'll be back."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later, Rory snuggled in closer to Tristan under the sheets and blanket of the bed in the spare room. Its status of only bedroom on the first floor made it the first one they'd come to when he arrived home.

Tristan's eyes roamed around contentedly. "I miss this room," he said musingly about the former master bedroom.

"It is a good room," she agreed.

"So much closer to the main part of the house." He asked, "Why did we need a new room?"

"Closet space." Closing her eyes, she added, "Your suits were taking over." The pillow was so soft, and Tristan was so warm. She turned to her side with her back against him so he could drape his arm over her.

Minutes after drifting off, she stirred at the sound of buzzing. Foggy headed, she nudged Tristan. His eyes were closed and by the steady rhythm, of his breathing, she knew he was asleep. "Wake up," she said.

He blinked a few times.

"Your phone is ringing."

He turned over and reached to the floor where his pants were to retrieve his cellphone from one of the pockets. "Hello?" he answered drowsily.

Rory could hear Mark on the other end of the line ask, "So are you planning to come back to work any time soon?"

Tristan held the phone away from his ear to check the time. "Damn it, I fell asleep," he muttered. He put the phone back in place to tell his partner, "Yeah, I'll be right there."

He ended the call and tossed the phone on the nightstand before getting out of bed. He pulled his pants on, glancing around to see if any other articles of his clothing were on the floor. Seeing only Rory's, he went out to the hall.

She checked the time on the nightstand clock and saw it had not been a few minutes, but over an hour. She rested her head back on the pillow, pulling the covers up to her chin. She felt no obligation to get up, and instead closed her eyes again, calling out to her husband, "Don't forget your phone's in here!"

When he came back to retrieve it, he asked, "Are you going back to work?"

"No. I can work here again."

"Must be nice," he mumbled, sticking his phone in his pocket. He bent over enough to give her a quick kiss. "Have a good afternoon."

"You too."

"Love you," he said, leaving her to fall back asleep.

Later, she woke up in the spare bedroom for a second time. She stretched and sighed, still not wanting to get up. But she checked the time again and decided to salvage the rest of her afternoon. She got up from the bed and collected her clothes from the floor—both in the room and the hallway—before heading upstairs to her real room to find a more comfortable outfit for working from home. Deciding on yoga pants and a long sleeve t-shirt, she went back downstairs. When she passed the spare room, she stopped. She couldn't leave the bed unmade, so she went in to straighten up. She thought better of this though, and took the sheets off to wash.

Ten minutes later, she was walking downstairs again toward the kitchen. She was going to need coffee if she expected to get any work done. But she stopped to pout when she remembered the fate of the coffee pot. "Rats," she said, glancing over to the coffee maker longingly, expecting it to look lonely without its glass companion. She brightened, surprised to see a shiny new pot where the old one used to sit.

She excitedly went over and smiled at the twelve cup pot as she took it to the sink to fill halfway with water. Then she added the appropriate amount of coffee grounds and took down a mug from the cabinet. When the comforting sound of the brewing stopped a few minutes later, she filled her cup, finally ready to get back to work. She glanced out the window over the sink, glad she was staying in, even if the snow she thought she'd smelled the previous week hadn't fallen so far. It was turning into the perfect day—for her, anyway.

As she passed the fish tank, a little gold flash caught her attention. She stopped and looked into the water. "Have we met?" she asked the fish that darted around the tank. Another energetic fish swam in the background. Frowning, she asked, "Did he bring you back to life? Or are you new?" She shook her head. "Either way, when did he find the time? No wonder he's sleep deprived."

She sat her coffee cup on the nearest lamp table and picked up the fish food to sprinkle some in the tank. "Now I want you to know," she told the fish, "if I kill you, it is not on purpose. So please don't take it personally." She picked her steaming mug back up and smiled contentedly at the happy living fish before heading down the hall to her desk.

She pulled out the articles she'd been combing through that week, ready to go over them again with new focus. This time, she wasn't looking for a needle in a haystack. She was looking for any mention of Jacob Peters and Thaddeus Black. She sat down and didn't bother stifling a large yawn before getting down to work.

She'd already skimmed several of them that morning at work after the weekly staff meeting had let out, but she had yet to find a mention of either name. As her pile of articles began to dwindle and she hadn't found either name, she thought more about the possibility of Avery investigating something she had not written before she died. Maybe there was a corrupt political boss running the whole city, like in the days of Boss Tweed, Rory mused, her cheek resting in the palm of her hand. She wondered how she was going to find out what they were up to.

"I'll have to investigate them myself," she concluded. She'd dig everything up on the councilmen she could find. It was clearly her only choice.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Tristan read through a list of questions he'd prepared for one of his witnesses for a third time. He rubbed his forehead, scanning the page to make sure his questions started general and became more specific. Then he picked up his yellow legal pad where he had a working flow chart full of evidence and witnesses, where he would gradually extract bits of information to present to the jury in a logical order.

He paused. "Wait a minute," he muttered to himself. "I can ask leading questions." He went back to his previous list and sighed. He would have to re-think his cross-examinations now. Not wanting to use up his time tomorrow, which he'd already allotted for other tasks, he read through the testimony and underlined the parts he wanted to use. He rephrased his questions to align with his way of thinking, and sat the sheet aside again. He yawned and checked his watch.

"Shoot," he said. It was eight thirty. He sat up and stretched, glancing around the precinct—empty, with the exception of a couple detectives who were unlucky enough to be stuck with the night shift.

He wondered why Rory hadn't called to ask if he was coming home. He picked up his cell phone and dialed her. When it went to voicemail after a few rings, he sat it down and started clearing off his desk. He considered leaving his work here for the night, since it was already getting late. But he decided against it, choosing to take some of it home with him, in case he couldn't sleep or woke up early again.

When he was finished packing his things—and starting to think a brief case might be useful—his cell rang. "Hello?" he answered.

"Hey, you called?" Rory said.

"Yeah, I was just going to let you know I'm on my way home."

"Okay."

"What were you doing?"

"Sleeping."

"All day?" he asked, incredulous, as well as jealous.

"No. Just part of it," she said defensively. "I moved my work to the couch, and I had a fire going, and I drifted off."

"The conditions do sound right," he said, pulling his arm through his coat sleeve and switching hands to hold the phone so he could finish putting his coat on. "Have you had anything to eat?"

"Not for dinner."

"Want me to pick something up?" He haphazardly draped his scarf over his neck and picked up his files, heading for the elevator. "Pizza?"

"Okay," she said. "With pineapple."

"Pineapple pizza it is," he said, stepping into the empty lift and ending the call.

Before the elevator reached the lobby, it made a stop at the second floor, and Captain Meyer stepped in.

"Good, I caught you," the balding man said. "I wanted a word."

"Yes, sir?"

The older man glanced down at the growing stack of work for the trial Tristan was toting. "Burning the midnight oil, I see."

"Yeah," Tristan said, shifting somewhat awkwardly.

The captain suddenly pulled the emergency lever, causing the elevator to lurch to a stop.

Tristan gasped and held the side bar to steady himself as the buzzer went off. Slightly wide eyed, he looked at his boss.

"You aren't going to do this anymore," Captain Meyer told him sternly.

"Do what?"

"Two jobs."

"But—"

Meyer didn't let him talk. "You will be a detective for the NYPD, or you'll be a prosecutor for the DA's office, but you will not do both."

"Sir, I wasn't—" Tristan tried to protest.

But the other man was shaking his head. "You can't keep splitting yourself in two. Choose one," he said. "And no matter which one you choose, Gregory Jacobs will not be complaining to me about you anymore. You will throw of yourself into one job one hundred percent, and leave the other alone."

Tristan stared, speechless. He could only watch as the captain pulled the lever so the elevator would continue its descent.

When it stopped at the first floor, Captain Meyer put a hand on Tristan's shoulder, steering him out to the lobby. Before the doors closed, Meyer nodded curtly and added, "You have until the end of the trial."