Electricity

By LMR

Disclaimer: Dear Mr. Wolf: We know that LMR doesn't really own CI, but she's promised us a 238. If you think we're going to pass on that, you're crazier than she is. Bye Dick! Love, B & A

A.N.: Extra-super-hyper thanks to guitar73girl/Claire for the wonderful Beta job. I wrote her a memo. But where did it get to?

A.N. 2: Thanks reviewers, and I see I fooled no one. Of course he didn't!

Chapter 8: The Sleepover (and yes, it's still rated K+)

xXx

Robert Goren's Apartment - Monday, July 2 - 9:38 p.m. Doink, doink.

Oh, oops. I'm not supposed to do that whole doink, doink bit if they're at 1PP or somebody's apartment, am I? Oh, dear. Oh, I'm so embarrassed. Um... pretend I didn't do the doink, doink, okay? And please don't tell anyone.

xXx

"We can call out for pizza later if you want," Goren offered, throwing his mail down on the already messy front table.

"I just wanna finish this stupid case." Eames gestured wearily to the sofa. "Let's get cracking."

"Oh... ah... well, you go ahead and sit. There's something I have to, um, take care of." She nodded vaguely as he disappeared into the bedroom, figuring she'd really rather not know what evidence he was tampering with. Probably some bimbo's bra.

But sitting on the side of his bed, Bobby picked up the picture frame and smiled. The tiny decoration with a little rose growing up the side contained a message, a memo, actually, that gave him a sense of serenity, of belonging, every time he looked at it. Eames really cares.

He opened the drawer to slip the memento inside. Her having written that note was one thing. Her finding it framed on his bedside table was another altogether. He traced the flower he loathed, snaking up the side of the frame. A yellow rose. That was what 'Don't forget' referred to now. She might really care, but she could never love him - not the way he loved her.

Don't forget that she's my partner. My friend. A no more, no way, no how, that's the long and short of it, don't even think about it, close but no cigar friend.

And that's the way it has to stay, he thought miserably as he set the frame back down and left the room.

"What did you find on Iskra?" Goren asked, back in the living room, sitting on the sofa near Eames. He pushed down his automatic desire to share what he knew about the origins of the unusual name. Also the desire to pull her into his arms. He shook the thought.

"She worked at Hair She Blows, good friends with our pal Cathy." Alex smirked and ran a hand through Bobby's poor, wayward hair. He grunted with displeasure. "She was engaged to a Drake Simmons, and of course, her hobby was synchronized swimming. I didn't even bother asking why."

Goren smiled, reaching for another file. "Well, like you said, where there's love... we'll have to look closely at the fiancée."

Eames yawned. "I'm beat, Bobby. I give it twenty minutes and I'm out like a cheap light bulb. I need that time for driving, not case solving."

"Comfy sofa," Bobby offered, patting the cushion next to him.

Alex looked at him skeptically. "Are you trying to be hospitable or do you just want me to handle the paperwork for twenty more minutes?"

"Both," Bobby answered without hesitation. "But mostly, I just want your brilliant insights and of course, the pleasure of your company."

Alex squinted at him hazily. "I'm too sleepy for my sarcasm detector to be fully functional."

"Never thought I'd see the day when you wouldn't be able to spot sarcasm." He lowered his voice to a sensual whisper that made Alex shiver. "I am completely serious on both counts." Bobby stroked her hand casually enough to be perceived as a friendly gesture, but intimate enough to give them both a pleasurable jolt. She gazed at the side of his face for a moment, trying to get a clue about his motive.

"I gotta use the little girls' room," she said, if for no other reason to shake the charge his innocent touch had given her.

He nodded. "Right through there," he indicated the bedroom to their left.

"'K, right back." My turn. She used his leg to lift herself up off the sofa, giving a little squeeze and, as she stood, sliding her hand up further up his thigh. Just a little. Perfectly innocent.

Did she just grope me? he wondered, shocked. A thrill ran through him at the thought.

After washing, Alex took her time passing through the bedroom. Everything was done in mellow browns and blues. Clean lines, soft colors. Masculine but gentle, just like Bobby. She traced her fingers over the bed, noting with both a hint of hope and a huff of jealousy, that the mattress was obviously built to hold two.

She stopped herself short of sniffing the pillow.

That might be crossing a line.

He'd left the drawer on the little bedside table open, and out of habit, she reached to push it shut. She stopped short when she saw what was sitting on his bedside table. Her note. In a frame. She sat on the edge of the bed, picked it up and kicked herself for ever believing that he would have thrown it out. My sweet, sentimental Bobby, not only kept it but put it in a nice frame and set it where he would see it every night.

Another implication of the placement occurred to her: The last thing he thinks about before he goes to bed is me. She felt a surge of pleasure at the thought

The note, she knew, didn't come close to the emotion she'd wanted to express: something more along the lines of, "You deserve every beautiful, precious, and special thing in the world and if I could be blessed enough to be part of that I'd just thank my lucky stars.

"...Oh, and by the way, I'm madly in love with you." Yeah, that would have gone over well. It would have given the poor guy heart failure.

And it wouldn't have fit around the damn caterpillar anyway.

She lovingly traced the tendril that wove its way up the side of the frame, caressing it with her thumb, smiling that he would keep her memento in such an intimate place and in this beautiful, personal frame, one with a rose, even. Her smile faded, coming to a full understanding of the meaning of the flower. A yellow rose. Friendship. Yeah, great. That was all he wanted from her, and she felt stupid for thinking even for a moment that he could crave more. All his touching really was innocent and friendly. And if she ever let on to how she felt, it would disgust him. Then she would lose both her partner and the best friend she'd ever had.

She shook the thought and composed herself enough to get back to the living room, remembering to act just as she would have if she hadn't seen the note, rather than going with her first impulse: something along the lines of wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing the top of his head, thanking him for keeping her so close to his heart, even as a friend. Hm, that won't do, methinks.

"All set," Eames said upon re-entering the living room. "It occurred to me: Suppose Justin could have been blackmailing the killer, just keeping our number on hand? We'll need to look at his bank accounts; find out if there's been a recent deposit."

"Distinct possibility. But we can't forget: Technically, we don't know Iskra's murder had anything to do with Justin's," Goren countered.

Eames sighed. "Good point. Who knows who this guy ticked off? What about the will?" She reached for the folder behind Bobby on the sofa. Using his bicep as leverage for her stretch, she brushed her other arm across his lower back before retrieving the file. Okay, so maybe he wasn't attracted to her, but damned if she wasn't going to feel him up at every opportunity anyway.

"Okay, Iskra didn't have any family," Eames started. "According to her will, her estate was divided equally between her 'dear friend, co-worker, and heorðgeneat, Cathy.' What's a...?"

"Friend," Goren explained. "Old English."

"Ah, this explains it. And the other half goes to her favorite charity," Eames continued. "Words Abandoned and Denounced from Dialects of the Language of English. Huh."

"Hoover," Goren said out of nowhere.

"I know it's a little messy in here, but let's focus on the case," Eames remarked dryly. After getting a chuckle, she continued seriously. "You really think he would kill just to send some money the way of his favorite charity?"

"People have killed for less," Goren pointed out. She nodded agreement.

"None to her fiancée. Must have not gotten around to changing it," Eames pointed out. "But did he know that?"

"So our suspects:

"We have Drake, the fiancée who probably expected her money to go to him. Cathy, the friend who inherited half her estate. Hoover, whose pet charity inherited the other half. And if we consider that the murders might be unrelated, we have Koto, who was possibly fighting off unwanted advances from Justin. (Got that list, everybody? You better - it's important. Okay, moving on.)

"Where does the fiancée work?"

Eames opened the file and groaned. "You have got to be kidding me. I thought that job only existed in bad fiction."

"What?"

"You are never going to believe this..."

xXx

So everybody knew he wouldn't throw it out, but Z.E. Grockle, The Confused One, and Scripted Starlet all guessed exactly what happened to the memo, right down to what table it was on in Z's case. You've definitely earned bragging rights. Milk it for all it's worth.

xXx

Questions to be answered next time:

What's Drake's job?

Could these people be any less clueless about each other's feelings?

Who is the killer? (No, you're not going to find out next time, it just seemed like a good thing to ask.)