Chapter Four

Bobby stared at the evidence photos and the paper trail for the fifth time in as many minutes. They all supported his suspicion that Francis Lamont had killed his wife. That discovery did not make him happy. Francis Lamont was a controlling, egotistical jerk, but he was also, as he repeatedly and not so subtly reminded Detectives Goren and Eames as they interviewed him earlier that week, a close friend of the mayor. Bobby sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. He wasn't entirely sure that Lamont was a friend of the mayor—it was Bobby's experience that the mayor of New York scarcely knew most of his "friends"—but the detective knew that Lamont had some pull in the world. Carver was not going to be happy about this. Deakins was not going to be happy about this. And Alexandra Eames was not going to be happy about this.

Bobby smiled at the thought of Alex. He had left her asleep that morning, curled up in her bed with the sunlight just touching her face. After the nightmare and talk in the middle of the night she had fallen into a deep and contented sleep in his arms. Bobby was reluctant to wake her, particularly since he had risen at 5 am. While she, apparently freed from her terrors, had rested, Bobby lay awake with his thoughts racing. They both knew the potential consequences of their relationship. They knew they were violating several chapters of NYPD regulations. They knew their personal relationship might poison their professional, and vice versa. Bobby thought he could deal with those consequences. He had decided soon after the start of the personal relationship—or, rather, soon after the start of the sexual relationship, because he and Alex had always had a personal relationship—that his career would be the one to go. Bobby loved his job; he enjoyed working for the NYPD. But it wasn't his life the way it was Alex's. He would do nearly anything for another officer, but Bobby hadn't been born into the blue tribe the way Alex had. Bobby also knew that Alex was taking the greater risk in the relationship. As the woman, she would, unfairly and unjustly, take the greater blame. She had more to lose. Bobby knew that Alex was as good if not a better detective than him—for one thing, she managed to keep the perps out of her head—but she had more ties to the NYPD, and the perception, wrong though it was, was that he was the brilliant light bulb lighting the way in the partnership while she kept the bulb from burning out. The FBI, special prosecutors, even the NYPD's newly formed terrorism task force were all calling on him. He had a place to go, somewhere to land, and Bobby was seriously considering all of these options if any of them meant he and Alex could be open about their relationship. But Bobby also loved working with Alex. It made everything so much easier. Her mind stimulated and eased his. He would give up the professional before the personal, but Bobby Goren didn't want to.

Bobby looked across at Alex's empty chair. He had left a note next to her coffee cup to tell her he would cover for her if she wanted to sleep or just play hooky. What scared Bobby—what had shaken him to his core last night—was that it was the personal that would hurt them. Bobby had his own fears about his mental state, but he knew that every day that went by meant that his chances of developing schizophrenia were that much less. But Alex's fears were much more substantial, much more likely, and she had experienced the reality of them. Bobby couldn't promise he wouldn't get killed any more than she could promise him the same. Bobby closed his eyes. He couldn't imagine which was worse—the prospect of Alex dying, or of his death leaving her in pain and grief. Bobby opened his eyes. Last night Alex was content to leave things as they were. He wouldn't press it: he would do what Alex wanted.

Deakins entered the office and headed for Bobby's desk. He was just about to speak, and Bobby ready with the quick "she had a doctor's appointment" excuse when Alex entered the office, shed her jacket, and plopped down in her chair.

"I'm on time," she smiled at Deakins, "because you're not in your office yet, right?"

Deakins tried to look stern and failed. "Ok," he said, "but don't push it." He turned to Bobby. "Anything on the Lamont case?"

"Yes," Bobby replied, "but you many not like it..."

Deakins sighed. "You've got evidence to back up your theory that Lamont killed his wife?"

"Yes," Bobby replied, "and I think it might even be enough to convince Carver."

"All right," Deakins said, resigned to his fate, "let's meet with Carver at ten."

"You could have let me get my caffeine first," Alex said as Deakins walked away.

"Hey," Bobby said as he arranged the photos and files and checked to make sure no one was close by, "I let you sleep in."

"No," Alex replied, "I got up at my usual time. You were the early bird." She looked around; the office was only half full. "Were you upset by..."

Bobby shook his head. "No...just thoughts zapping through my head...actually..." He lowered his voice. "It meant...a lot...to know that you trusted me like that. Thank you."

Alex smiled at him. "It's good to know I can trust you. Thank you. Now, do you want to get us some coffee?"

End Chapter 4