Pronunciation note: Xochilt (so'shilt) is a Mexican name that means "flower" in Nauatl, the language of the Aztecs.

Chapter 4: Nombre

Alex stood next to the hospital bed, absent mindedly toying with the bandage wrapped around her right arm.

"We've relieved the pressure on her brain, but we can't know when she'll regain consciousness," the doctor explained.

"Just my luck," Alex said sardonically.

Ross walked in. As she turned to look at him she caught sight of the clock on the wall, which told her it was only 6 a.m. She'd slept a little, but she didn't feel like she had.

"How are you?" Ross asked with sincere concern.

"I can't complain. Nothing's broken and I didn't get shot in the head. I just wish I got the bastard. I think I got a good enough look at him for a sketch." She gently pressed the cut on her arm beneath the bandage. The pain medication was starting to wear off. "I'm sure it's the same guy who attacked our John Doe. The way he uses knives is kind of signature. Some of the cuts on the vic's arms look just like mine."

"The sketch won't be necessary. We got prints off his gun; he's in the system."

Her brows shot up with interest. "Oh, really?"

"Carlos Lorenzi. He was arrested for assault with a deadly weapon four years ago, and got out of serving hard time by turning in the drug dealer who hired him. Her prints are also on record," he indicated the woman in the hospital bed. "Twenty-three-year-old Xochilt Ortiz. Immigrated from Mexico with her family in '99, became a U.S. citizen last year. No criminal record."

"I wonder how she got caught up in this...whatever this is."

"Lorenzi's prints were also found at a break-in of a dock warehouse last Saturday," Ross said.

"What was stolen?"

"Nothing."

Alex shook her head and wished Bobby was there; he'd at least be able to think of the next question to ask. "I should go back to the office and write up my statement," she said.

"You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah." She looked at the doctor. "Make sure to call me when she wakes up."

Three hours later, Alex finished her report. She rested her head on her desk for a moment, and briefly considered asking Ross for the rest of the day off. Instead she called in a request for the police report of the break-in Lorenzi had been involved in. As she waited for the fax machine to finish spitting it out, she flipped open her cellphone, closed it, flipped it open again, and called Goren. He didn't answer, but she heard a familiar ring in the direction of the elevator, coming closer.

"Bobby," she smiled at him and flipped her phone closed.

"I heard you went to the hospital. Are you okay?" His eyes fixed on her face, and his forehead was wrinkled with concern.

"I'm fine. I just got a little scraped up in a scuffle with a suspect."

"Who was left handed," he said, and explained in response to her questioning look, "You're favoring your right arm. That's where you were...hurt."

She actually had cuts on both arms, and one across her right collar bone that she hadn't even known about until she was checked out at the hospital. The worst one wrapped halfway around her right forearm. "I guess he was left-handed. I didn't really notice."

She picked up the report from the fax machine and went back to her desk. Goren followed her. "I want you to look at something," she told him. She sat in her chair and brought out an evidence bag. Inside was a small piece of note paper with rows of handwritten numbers. "We've faxed this to an accountant, a cryptographer, and a mathematician. We haven't heard back yet."

He leaned over her shoulder to get a better look. He was so close that Alex could feel the warmth coming off his body. They did that a lot when they worked together: seeing how close they could get without touching. It was like a game, except she wondered if she was the only one playing it. If he knew how it sometimes affected her, he'd probably be more careful about personal body space. That's why she never let on. She looked up at him, shifting her shoulder just enough that it brushed his arm. It would look like an accidental touch to anyone who happened to be watching.

He acted like he hadn't noticed. "This has to do with the case?" he asked, puzzling over the list.

"It was found near the victim's hotel room," Eames replied. On a woman who's now lying unconscious in a hospital bed. She decided to omit that detail. She had to be careful not to get Bobby too involved in the case.

"17, 215, 24, 302, 3, 103, 121, 7, 101, 3, 11, 2, 2121, 106, 3, 5, 6, 221, 5, 135, 141. It definitely looks...like a code." His brow crinkled, and Alex had to smile at him. "Can I get a copy of this?" he inquired.

She handed him the copy she already made with him in mind. "Knock yourself out."

He smiled at her. Then his smile faded away. "I should get back to...to the things I have to do." He rested his hand on her shoulder for a second, like a butterfly alighting on a leaf. Then he walked back toward the elevator.

Ross intercepted him before he got there. "How are you holding up, Goren?"

He couldn't think of an answer. "I'm fine...I...was just checking up on...Eames."

"She can manage without you. I promise."

That comment made Goren even more uncomfortable. His movements became tight and shifty. Alex turned in her chair, wondering if she should go to his rescue.

"When's the services?" Captain Ross asked.

A simple question with an easy answer, which Goren gave with near relief. "Tomorrow at four." He looked toward Alex and added, "At St. Agatha Cemetery in Hoboken." He talked to someone else while looking at her, like he did when they were putting on an act for a suspect. And he was putting on an act, she realized: pretending to be coping when he wasn't.

Captain Ross, oblivious to Goren's telltale nervous fidgiting, nodded. "I know this is a hard time for you Goren. I just want you to take all the time you need. Don't even think about coming back until you're ready to come back."

"I won't," he answered quietly.

"At least there's someone here who knows how to take time off," Ross said, directing the comment at Eames.

She didn't laugh. In fact, she frowned with worry as Goren disappeared into the elevator. Then she tried to focus on the report in front of her.

Four hours, another crime report, and three phone calls later, Eames barged into Ross' office. "I need to go back over the break-in at the docks."

He looked up with a mixture of curiosity and irritation. "The one involving Lorenzi? Why?"

"Because I'm sure it has to do with this case."

"I find myself praying there's more to this than a hunch."

"The most recent shipment to that particular warehouse came from Mexico; Xochilt Ortiz is from Mexico, and witnesses heard her talking to the victim in Spanish. The break-in happened Saturday night, two days before our John Doe turned up dead. Lorenzi's a hired gun, and whoever hired him for the warehouse break-in probably also hired him for the killing. I think John Doe was killed over whatever Lorenzi and friends didn't find in that warehouse."

Ross thought this over. "Fine. But I want you to take Logan with you."

"Why?" she whined. "I think I've proven I can take care of myself."

"Lone wolf is not our policy; you know that. Just because you're partner's temporarily out of commission doesn't mean you don't have to play by the book."

"Okay," she reluctantly conceded. "But I want him to understand that this is my case."

He looked surprised at her vehemence, but approving. Maybe she was enjoying being out of her partner's shadow for a change. "Of course. I'll make the necessary calls; you can go tomorrow morning."