"Thanks, Paul. I'll see you at eight." Jamie hung up, then looked through the glass at Jack's closed door. She didn't know if he was there, or if he'd ducked out when she wasn't watching. She looked down at the legal pad and picked up her pen. Watch, she thought, I've tried to watch him, God knows. He's not taking this well. She'd seen Van Buren, Briscoe, and Curtis file into his office early that morning, but, uninvited, she was clueless as to what was said. All she did know was they left an hour later, each face dark with emotions – anger, shock, bewilderment.
She would meet Paul Robinette and the elusive Ben Stone in a few hours. Paul was the one who pointed her to Ben. He told her Ben slipped back into town for Claire's funeral and was still in New York, though he preferred that not to be known. She'd heard stories about Ben, had faced him twice in court, but he was as much a puzzle as Jack. Tonight, she hoped, more pieces would fit together. She finished her notes, checked her watch, and turned to another file. So much to do, she thought, with Dressler coming up, and either Jack would commit career suicide or he'd pull it together. It was out of her hands in some respects. Realizing there was little she'd accomplish in the next couple of hours, she cleared her desk, then walked across the hall.
She knocked softly. No answer. She tried the door, it opened, and she looked into the empty office. Jack, she thought, oh God, Jack. Where are you, and what are you doing?
Jack was sitting in his apartment, in his underwear, drinking and staring at Claire's picture in the fading light. "Is it true?" he asked aloud, knowing there would not be an answering voice. In his mind, he saw Claire amble out of the kitchen, a glass of wine in hand and a teasing smile all she wore. Don't try to kill him for me, Jack, she said as she sat in his lap, it will seriously piss me off.
Jack shut his eyes, rubbed them, and, opening them again, saw the emptiness. He knew these visions were imaginary, but at the same time, they were a little scary. He wondered what Liz Olivet would say. He sipped. It was always the same thing, some imaginary, quick glimpse of his past life, a tantalizing invitation into what was and what might be if he simply let go and joined her. He knew precisely what Liz Olivet would say on that subject. And thank you very much for asking, but a tour of Bellevue's mental ward was not on his to do list.
Get a grip, Jackie boy. He sat up, fists on his knees. She was the only one who ever called him that, and only in the aftermath of sweaty sheets and less than ladylike commentary and directions. A smile broke free on his face, and he sipped his drink, relaxing back on the couch. " I miss you," he said, "so much I sometimes think it's going to kill me." I know, she whispered in his ear. He swore he felt her settle next to him on the couch, but he was afraid to look, to break this moment, real or not. It will get better, I promise. But what you're doing to this man, Jack, killing him as some kind of justice for me is not the way to go. Justice lies in other directions. Go that route. Yes, make this man pay for what he did, but don't go for the death penalty. Jack wiped a tear from his eye, his mental jukebox suddenly playing "Ferry Cross the Mersey." His mental VCR played memories, he and Claire on the ferry, going to see Mike Logan; the wind blowing her hair, a blue and white cup of coffee in her hand, an anticipatory smile on her face. She'd always liked Logan, sometimes he was jealous of the friendship between them. Logan was good looking and much closer in age, but then Claire would sense the budding emotion in Jack and touch him – a hand on his knee under the table, or lean against him for a moment on the office couch, nothing noticeable to anyone but Jack. He drained his scotch and refilled the glass.
"You want me to take the needle out of his arm," he said, finding it oddly normal to be talking to a dead woman, he did it often enough.
Yes. You know how I feel on that subject. And he has nothing to do with me.
"Diana?" The mental jukebox switched, he heard the strains of George Harrison's guitar and then "While My Guitar Gently Weeps."
Yes. Diana and whomever. I don't suddenly know all the answers, Jack. I just know I'm OK, this place is cool, and I'm watching over you. Which reminds me, Jesuit boy, the way you ride that motorcycle – didn't those priests teach you suicide is a mortal sin? He heard the teasing in her voice.
"I want to be with you."
And you will be, when the time comes, whenever that is. You can't hurry the process.
"Our baby?" He drank, he didn't want to think about that, but the question forced itself free of the dark musings in his mind.
A little boy. I'm not going to try and explain this place, I can't. You always trusted me, trust me now. Let it go, Dressler I mean, and get on with your life. Find someone who will make you happy.
"Easier said than done."
The phone rang, and he cursed, it broke the connection he had at the moment, but he reached for it. "McCoy," he snarled.
"Jack, it's Jamie." She took a deep breath. "Look, I'm meeting Paul Robinette and Ben Stone in an hour, do you want to join us?"
He looked at the glass in his hand and thought about meeting straight, sober Ben. Oh fuck it, he thought, if Ben knows anything, I want to hear it. "Yeah, OK."
"Uh, Jack? You might want to stop drinking until then." He heard concern in her voice, not censure.
"Gotcha. Where are you meeting them?"
She gave him the address of an upscale bar and urged him to take a taxi. He said he would, and hung up. He realized whatever connection he'd had with Claire, imaginary or not, was gone, and he sighed. He put the glass aside and struggled up to shower. As hot water poured over his head, he thought about what the ghost in his head said, about taking the needle out of Dressler's arm, for her, and he knew he would if he saw even a flicker of remorse in the man's eyes. He'd lost Claire, he didn't want to lose the things that made her love him, like his integrity, for one. He let the tears flow in the shower, tears held back for so long, sobbing over what he'd lost. Cleansed, emotionally and physically, he turned off the water and stepped out, grabbing a towel. He focused on Diana Hawthorne, and the hatred that filled him was so overpowering he stopped, letting the emotion run through him, and when it ran its course, dried the last of his long body and dressed.
Jamie walked into the bar, her eyes searching for Paul. She saw him at a booth near the back, and wove through the crowd. The two men stood as she approached the booth.
"Jamie Ross, Ben Stone." Paul smiled.
Jamie shook hands with both men before shedding her coat and sliding into the booth next to Ben. "I asked Jack to join us. He's not taking this well at all, he may not be sober."
Ben glanced at Paul. "I understand, perhaps more than you realize. I saw him at the funeral, the internment. He's the last person I expected to see broken, I wanted to reach out, but knew he'd push me away." Ben shrugged. "I'm not sure how much help I can be, but whatever I have, it's yours."
Jamie heard the door and glanced up. Jack walked in, dressed in jeans and a burgundy sweater, and she waved. He nodded and pushed his way through the crowd. He sat next to Paul. "Paul, Ben, Jamie." He looked around for a waitress.
He looks terrible, Jamie thought, and I guess I can't blame him. The waitress came up and they ordered a round. As they waited, Jamie cleared her throat and turned to Ben. "As Paul may have told you, there's cause for believing Diana Hawthorne was behind what happened to Claire, nothing concrete, just a string of coincidences and a couple of remarks she let slip."
Ben looked at Jack, the sympathy in his eyes palpable. "How are you, Jack?"
Jack met Ben's gaze, the walls going up as he protected the pain that was his. "I'm hanging on," he said. "Working. You know how that is."
"I do, sir. I also know grief."
The drinks arrived, delaying Jack's response to Ben's opening probe. "Then you understand that it's a private matter, Ben."
"Yes, it is, but sometimes friends can help. I cared about her, too, Jack."
"I know." Jack sipped his scotch. "Diana," he said, steering the conversation away from the woman they'd both loved and Jack won.
"The question," Jamie began, "is how we begin to prove a conspiracy, and from there, to the act itself."
"I have Briscoe and Curtis on that," Jack said. "If anyone can dig up dirt, it's those two, and they have a personal interest in digging deeply."
"Do you have anything she said on tape?" Ben asked.
Jamie shook her head. "No. I wasn't expecting anything like that. Blew me away," she added, glancing at Jack.
"It's my guess that she would find it hard to resist gloating, in some oblique way, to Jack," Ben said.
"And it's my guess that I'd strangle her on the spot," Jack snarled.
Jamie frowned at him. "You're determined to commit career suicide one way or the other. Why?"
"Why not?" He looked at her, then at Ben. "You resigned when you got that witness killed, you felt the guilt and pain at an innocent life taken, did running away help?"
Ben drew a deep breath and turned his glass on his base. "No. One doesn't put a destroyed life back together that easily, Jack. You can't run away from yourself, nor can you bury the pain in drink, because it comes back twice as hard in the morning."
Jack responded by draining half the scotch in his glass. "Suggesting AA to me in your oblique way, Ben?"
Ben's smile was patient. "No. I'm saying I've been down the road before you."
"You weren't in love with that woman, she wasn't having your child. You didn't say 'the hell with her' and bail out on her, leaving her to take Briscoe home instead of you."
"I did none of those things," he admitted. "But isn't it time to climb out of that pit and seek justice for Claire?"
Jamie realized she and Paul had faded to deep background, that these two men, who loved Claire Kincaid, were connecting on some level she didn't understand but didn't want to break. She watched, sipping wine, glancing at Paul from time to time as Ben talked about strategy for nailing Diana Hawthorne to the wall. Jack reminded him time was the factor they couldn't control, they didn't have enough to keep her incarcerated fifteen minutes longer.
"I'm out of the game," Ben said. "I can do things you can't. Will you let me help?"
Jack shrugged. "Yes. Anything to nail that woman, to make her pay."
"Then we shall do our best. But." He looked at Jack, and Jack met his gaze. "You have to pull yourself together, Jack. You're a hell of a prosecutor, Mr. McCoy, but right now you're a wreck, even I see that, and I don't know you all that well."
Jack shrugged. "I'll try." He pushed his empty glass away. He looked at Jamie and couldn't help thinking it should be Claire sitting there.
Ben picked up on it. "But it's not," he said, softly, and Jack's eyes bored into his. "We buried her, Jack, she's gone, and all we can do is seek justice for her. We both know how she would feel on the subject."
Jack nodded, biting his tongue, refusing to say 'yeah, all you did was talk.' Wounding Ben was unnecessary and cruel. There'd been enough wounding to go around, he thought, reflecting on the lives impacted by the killing of Claire Kincaid. "You ever talk to her in your head, Ben?" he asked, so softly that Ben was the only one who heard him.
"I do."
"And does she answer back?"
He smiled, a sad, wistful thing that pierced Jack as he realized how deeply this man grieved, too. "No. Does she answer you?"
Jack's answer was to order another drink. He would never admit to anyone that he had a ghost in his head who simply would not go away, that he didn't want her to go away, that imaginary conversation was better than nothing.
"I'll go see Diana in the morning," Ben said.
"Won't that telegraph our knowledge, that we're on to her and looking into it?"
Ben looked at Jamie. "Perhaps. And perhaps that's a good thing. Scared people make mistakes. And I'll go in wired."
Jamie looked at Jack. He was watching, listening, knowing he couldn't go anywhere near Diana, or they'd be prosecuting him. "If you think that's the way to go. Dressler takes the stand in the morning." She looked pointedly at Jack, who shrugged. "I'm going to take Jack home, you'll let me know?"
"I will, Miss Ross. Good luck tomorrow." He looked at Jack. "I'm here for you, if you want to talk."
"Thanks, Ben." He drained his drink, then got up when Jamie did, willing to be shepherded home by this assistant, instead of the one who came to perform the same task, only to find he'd bailed on her, leaving her to die.
Jamie got him into her car, then headed toward his apartment. "Are you going to be all right?"
He looked at her and smiled, an easy, fond smile. "Yes, Mommy."
"And tomorrow?"
"We'll see what happens tomorrow." He looked straight ahead. "I'll be there, on time, and ready. And then, once this business is concluded, I'm going after Diana."
"I know. I want to help you."
He looked at her again, cocking his head. "Why? You didn't know Claire."
"But I've talked to enough people that I feel I do. And I do know you. I don't want to see you go down in flames."
"Literally or metaphorically?"
She smiled. "Both. Jack, I'm the first to say I've never lost anyone I loved like that, so I'm not arrogant enough to say I understand your pain. I don't. I think Ben Stone is closest to understanding what you're going through."
He caught her implication and bristled a little. "I don't need to talk to anyone." He bit his bottom lip. "No, that's not true. I need to talk to Claire, but I can't."
It's only been a few months, she reminded herself, he hasn't had time to heal, be patient. "You can still talk to her. When my father died, I talked to him all the time, and I felt like he was there, listening."
Jack nodded. "Turn left at the next light," he said. When she stopped in front of his building, he unbuckled his seat belt and turned to face her. "Thanks. For the ride, for trying to help. Now get some sleep and let's be ready for tomorrow." He got out and she watched him walk inside, then pulled away to go home and get some needed sleep.
Jack undressed and tossed his clothes on the floor. He could almost hear Claire chiding him, but he didn't care. He crawled into bed, his head spinning, and turned on his side, facing the empty side of the bed. "Make sure I do the right thing," he whispered before passing out.
And then he saw it, that genuine remorse in Dressler's eyes, and he felt Claire so powerfully he took a step backward. Now, do it now, do the right thing she whispered. And he did. All hell broke loose with the judge, but Jack knew he'd done what Claire wanted, and that was all he needed to know. He'd deal with the consequences if and when they came. The needle was out of Dressler's arm, and Jack felt oddly OK with that. Jamie was happy, which touched him.
Ben Stone waited for them at the office. Once inside Jack's office, he sat on the couch and looked from Jamie to Jack. "She did it," he said. "I'm not sure we'll be able to prove it, but she did it, she arranged for Claire to die." He couldn't conceal the anger in his voice. "I've asked Adam to appoint me special prosecutor, to convene a grand jury, and he's agreed. I'll be moving into an office two doors down." He looked at Jack with great kindness. "Obviously, you can't prosecute her, but I promise, I will give you, give Claire, justice. It may not be easy, she's a crafty witch, but I'm going after her with everything I have."
"And you have a lot, Ben," Jack admitted. "You were a hell of a good prosecutor."
"Thank you. You have to stay out of this, Jack, except when I call you as a witness."
"I know. I will. But, I do expect to be kept in the loop."
"Every step of the way." Ben got up. "I have work to do." He offered his hand to Jack. "You did the right thing today."
Jack nodded as he shook Ben's hand. "I did it for Claire," he said, softly, for Ben's ears only. Ben nodded.
"I'll be in touch soon."
When he was gone, Jack sank in his chair and looked at a framed picture of Claire on his desk. He felt tears well in his eyes, and he turned away from Jamie, she would not see him cry. Under control again, he got up and faced her.
"I'm taking the afternoon," he said. "I need to be alone."
She nodded. "I'll tell Adam."
He collected his things, held his helmet under his arm. "I'll see you tomorrow. Thanks." He left the office, running really, in his mind, from memories, the office had too many fresh memories of the aftermath of victories and defeats, shared with Claire. He drove with his now usual carelessness through traffic to his building, and took refuge in his apartment. He changed into sweatpants and a tee shirt, then poured a drink and saluted the air with his glass. "For you," he said, "and now I'm going to get real justice for you. Loving you made me a better man, and I don't want to lose that, please don't let me lose that." He put a CD on, then settled on his couch, content to live in memories for the rest of the day, it was the only way he could be with her again unless he rode in front of a bus.
Outside the rain began, God's tears for the world.