CHAPTER 3: Ain't No Rest for the Wicked
Summary: "Oh, there ain't no rest for the wicked, money don't grow on trees..." Boyd has got to get his sh*t together if he's going stay ahead of the wave of attention turning his way.
Getting a little father into A/U, now. Picking up where S2:E13 "God's Good Grace" left off. Drama. Rated K+ for language. A Boyd-centric chapter, with a little Traci, Jerry, Dov and Chris, Pete Sun, and the slightest, merest implication of Callaghan and Peck. Title from Ain't No Rest for the Wicked, by Cage the Elephant. Raucous, fun song about law-breakers.
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No one paid him any mind – there had been too much elation over getting Swarek back, good-natured sniping about who owed whom how many drinks… Not enough attention to loose ends.
Before this fuckin' job – 'til Brennan, Swarek and that rookie – his attention to detail had been laser-like, focused. Each and every case tied up in a tight little bow, asses covered, prettified files laid on the desk of whatever ambitious young prosecutor who needed a win to get to the next rung on the ladder. No loose ends. This wasn't supposed to be any different; in fact, dragging Jamie Brennan back to the shithouse was nothing but tying up loose ends. Somehow, though, here he is in the bullpen of the 15th, watching his case, his relationship with the best JMC informant Guns 'n Gangs has ever had and possibly his entire career unravel before his fucking eyes.
Ah-mazing. Nash is chasing down God's Good Grace. More like Karmic Fucking Retribution. McNally's got the car accident story straight from Brennan; it's not a huge leap to the ginned-up report. From the report to a shiny new detective in the 34th and grubby Kaminsky down in the garage. And that guy had fink written all over him. He was fucked: Too many loose ends.
Boyd's chin drops into his chest; he's the picture of exhaustion. No rest for the wicked; his grandpa used to say that. Shaking his head does little to clear it, so his next thought is coffee, then damage control. There's gotta be some way to flip this, some way to get out from under, some… Some leverage. He's just got to find it. Before this job moves from bad to worse.
Loose ends'd bring you down every time.
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"I don't think they're comin', Nash," Dov offers, shuffling up to the table Traci's chosen to keep watch the Penny's scarred wooden door. He manages to guide the pitcher in his hand to the tabletop without spilling a drop, but it's a near thing.
Sliding into a seat on Traci's other side, Chris nods, typically eager in his support. "Yeah, I mean, they're probably having their own private celebration," he adds, elbowing her lightly, a sly half smile curling his mouth.
"Yeah-heh-heh-heh-yuh!" Epstein adds, exuberantly clinking glasses with Chris, sending Traci scrambling back from the now beer-dampened surface of their table.
Pete Sun's glance darts around the table. "Who's probably having their own private celebration?"
Traci sighs inwardly, wondering how many more times she can just not answer this nosy kid's question before he gives up asking anything. She can't even get help with triage: In this near-drunken condition, the Wonder Twins are oblivious to nonverbal cues. Here goes nothing. "Thank you, boys," hoping Chris and Dov can hear the censure in her voice.
No such luck. "I'm just sayin': Two years of smoldering glances…" Dov replies, burying a grin in another sip of beer.
"Weeks of secret meetings in Swarek's looooove shack," Chris adds, practically giggling.
"Yeah, and two days of search and rescue for Sam's tortured body. I'm sure they're ripping each others' clothes off as we speak," Traci scoffs, staring one then the other male rookie down. Actually, she thinks… But no need to confirm for these two nitwits. Pete Sun shifts in his seat, drawing her eye. Three nitwits, she mentally corrects herself.
"Well, when you put it like that…" Dov mumbles, tossing the last of his pint down his throat before reaching for the pitcher.
Beer pouring is the only sound at their table, the day's events overwhelming easy conversation. Another five minutes ticks by, and Traci has to admit that Chris and Dov must be right: It's been over an hour since they'd left the Barn and no word from Swarek or Andy. None from Jerry, either, which means he's neck-deep in writing up his notes on the Brennan interrogation. Speak of the Devil, she thinks, her smart phone's readout lighting up with Jerry's name. Rising from the table, giving the boys the universal signal for "just a minute," Traci takes the call.
"Hey, Jer, I was just wondering to myself when you'd be wrapping up."
"Not any time soon, babe. Listen, where did you put Swarek's undercover file when you were done with it?"
"What do you mean? It's not in your desk?"
"Yeah, that's what I mean: I'm at my desk and it's not here."
"Well, I put it back in your desk, right there in the D's office."
"And you locked the drawer up like I showed you?"
"Yeah, Jerry, it's a key, not rocket science."
"Which drawer?"
"Jerry."
"Ok, well, it's not there now."
"I'll be right over."
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There is no sneaking away from her three musketeers, so it's more like fifteen minutes before the pitcher is drained and the tab closed out and closer to half an hour to get back to the Barn. The bright fluorescent lighting leaves Dov and Chris blinking stupidly, bumbling their way through the bullpen in her wake. Only Pete keeps up with Traci's long stride, and he is stopped short at the door of the detectives' shared office, the twinned glares of Jerry and Luke Callaghan assuring him he's not welcome.
Traci slaps the door open with her palm, and slows only upon reaching Jerry's desk. She lets her eyes relax and rove its surface, trying to match the corner aligned stacks in front of her now with what she left two hours ago. It's definitely different… but how? "Did you move anything on top of the desk?" she asks, not sure what she hopes his answer will be.
Jerry folds his arms across his chest. "Move anything? On top of my own desk?" he asks, tone incredulous.
"It's not an accusation, Jerry," Traci states, looking up from the desk to her boyfriend's stony expression. "I'm getting a weird feeling – like, it looks off – and I need to know whether it's you or my imagination."
Uncurling one arm, he gestures at the space centered before his chair. "I threw down my notebook – you know, my interrogation journal – and sat down. Mighta ruffled some other papers. I reached into my pocket to get my key and open the drawer. I looked in, and the folder's not there. I called you." He tilts his head toward his fellow detective. "Callaghan can confirm."
Turning her gaze toward the other man, she raises her eyebrows. "Yeah, that's what happened."
"You been in here all night?"
Luke holds her stare. "No. I went out to give a friend a ride home. Twenty minutes, tops."
A friend. Traci doesn't pursue it, but there's only one person who needs both a ride and a place to stay. Besides, they have more important things to worry about than a possible Homicide Luke and Legacy Peck hook up.
"And the desk was locked?" she asks, turning away from Luke's challenging blue eyes.
Jerry sighs, "Yeah, yeah, it was locked. I slipped the key in, jiggled it in the lock…"
"Jiggled it in the lock?"
"Is that a problem for you, Nash? I jiggled it in the lock!"
"Well, Detective Barber, has it been that hard to open this whole time or just recently?"
"Just say what you're trying to say, Nash."
"Is it possible that someone picked your desk, Jerry? Someone who's got a helluva lot to lose the more we dig at this case? Somebody like…"
Callaghan beats her to the punch. "Donovan Boyd." Traci meets the deep blue eyes again, nodding slightly.
