Disclaimer: I don't own Crossing Jordan. (Duh!)
Note: This one is a bit longer, but I didn't want to cut it in half (especially 'cos I liked the chapter title :)).
As always, thanks to the reviewers - Mexwojo, BugFan4Ever, lbcjfan and Pandorea. You're really great, guys! :) And thanks to all other readers, too. :)
"But I… I…" Meghan Reilly stammered, waving her hands around, trying to point out that she couldn't possibly be carrying the murder weapon on her as she was wearing a pair of dark blue skinny jeans and a close-fitting grass green T-shirt.
Nevertheless, Woody wasn't convinced. "Your bag," he said matter-of-factly. "I'm guessing you had a bag with you. So, where is it now?"
"I-I don't know." Mrs. Reilly seemed confused. "I… If it's not in the elevator, I-"
Since patience wasn't exactly his middle name, and especially not since he'd gotten shot, the detective interrupted her, sighing overly dramatically. He wasn't buying all that "grieving widow" performance of hers. She was probably already planning what to do with his money.
"Well, try to remember," he told her. "Or we could finish this conversation down at the precinct."
That was too much for Jordan. What the hell was he thinking he was doing? The woman had barely stopped sobbing and he was accusing her of stabbing her husband to death and stashing the knife? Who the hell had given him the right to trample on her heart?
That more rational part of her was telling her that there indeed was a possibility that the woman in front of her was a murderer. The more emotional one felt that the sorrow in the woman's eyes and voice was real and that she could never have killed her husband. Whichever was true, Jordan knew one thing: there was no need for Woody to act like that. He could at least be civil.
"Woody," she uttered before realizing that she probably should call him Detective Hoyt now when they were all official and professional. "That's enough," her voice was pretty controlled, but a note of agitation could be heard.
He hadn't been paying any attention to her during his little exchange with Mrs. Reilly. In fact, he had almost forgotten that she was there. Now he was reminded of her presence and wasn't too glad about it.
"Last time I checked, you were a medical examiner," he told her, struggling to keep his voice low.
"Last time I checked, you were a human being," she equaled, disregarding his outraged expression.
Although Mr. Henley from "Avery Elevators" was very interested in seeing the outcome, he never had the opportunity because Mrs. Reilly managed to remember what had happened with her bag.
"Detective," she addressed Woody almost timidly, "I must have left it in the apartment."
As four of them – Woody, Jordan, Mrs. Reilly and the guard (Mr. Henley had been unceremoniously dismissed despite his pleading looks) – climbed the stairs and then walked the hallway to number 351, the widow was explaining what she thought had happened.
"I saw him as soon as I entered." She was doing her best to prevent her voice from shaking. "He was there… in the middle of the living room… in a pool of blood." She choked the tears back. "I-I couldn't move. Then I grabbed the phone and dialed 911. I think I was screaming… Don't know if they could understand what I was saying…I felt like I was suffocating. I badly needed fresh air, so I-"
"Took the elevator?" Woody interrupted her. Insensitivity was becoming his middle name. "I don't think so."
By that time, they were in Mr. Reilly's apartment and, with latex gloves on his hands, the detective was searching the living room for Meghan's Louis Vuitton.
Meeting his gaze, she replied, mustering all the courage she could, "You are going to find about it eventually, so you may as well hear it from me." She paused. "Jacob had a restraining order against me."
Jordan's jaw dropped. She was so upset that she didn't even notice the victorious glance Woody threw her way.
"He only got it two days ago," the woman continued her explanation. "He was strange lately, you see. He wasn't himself. I-we… we have been… were separated for five months now. He was constantly refusing to talk to me, to tell me what was wrong." She stifled a tear. "He didn't even want to see me. Only when I would bring the kids here to spend the weekend with him." Tears were rolling down her face now. "He kept telling me that it was over, that I should stop bothering him… I-I just wanted to know why." She buried her face in her hands. "I just wanted him back," she sobbed out through her fingers.
Jordan approached her and hugged her again. Maybe the story altogether wasn't too convincing, but she believed her. She knew the feeling too well.
Woody, however, didn't share her opinion. "So you killed him," he stated. "If you could-"
"No!" Mrs. Reilly almost screamed through the tears. "It was nothing like that, I…"
"Hm." The detective wasn't convinced at all, but didn't bother to retort as his attention had been drawn to a small black bag trapped between the table on which the telephone was and the wall. "Let's see what we've got here."
From the bag, he pulled out nothing more than a pair of sunglasses, a cell phone, a pack of chewing gums, a bunch of keys and a used Kleenex. The knife, which he had so eagerly been trying to find, wasn't there. He sighed inwardly.
"Just because we haven't found anything incriminating in your bag, that doesn't mean you're not our prime suspect any more," he told Mrs. Reilly pretty menacingly, frustrated. "There is no sign of forced entry and I'd say you still had a key." When she didn't protest, he went on. "The French doors are closed, too, as well as all the windows…" he continued suggestively. "Stay in town," he added shortly before turning to the guard. "I'm gonna need the surveillance tapes."
"Certainly." The young man was glowing with pride. Had you asked him what he was so proud of, he wouldn't have known the answer.
A few hours later, Jordan was examining Mr. Reilly's body in Autopsy Four. Nigel was there, too, watching the autopsy closely, not having anywhere else to be.
"What's with these?" he asked her enthusiastically, drawing her attention to the man's hands.
"Small abrasions on the fingers." Jordan wasn't really interested. She had already seen them. "Probably a result of his attempts to untie the rope. Judging from the wounds, it took him some half an hour to bleed to death."
"You don't think the wife did it, luv?" he asked tactfully. Through the office grapevine, he had heard that there was, to put it gently, some disagreement between Jordan and a certain blue-eyed detective.
"Look at these wounds again, Nige," she told him instead of an answer. "The angles just aren't right. He was six feet tall. Judging by the wounds, he was stabbed by somebody at least two inches taller than him."
Nigel nodded. "Somebody is not going to be pleased."
She only shot him a sharp look which was, as clearly as words would have been, saying, "I couldn't care less."
It was already 5 pm. Jordan had just returned from court, and was trying to finish her autopsy report on Jacob Reilly. She wanted to fax it to Woody as soon as possible, so that he would stop harassing poor Meghan. She had lowered the Venetian blinds, enjoying the peace and quiet of her office. Usually she was able to concentrate despite all the buzz of the morgue, but that was so not the day. Firstly, she hated the mere memory of the case because of which she had been in court. Then, the fact that she was wearing that uncomfortable skirt wasn't helpful at all. She had to endure it only a bit longer, though, as the report was almost done.
She worked for some more time. Then she stretched lazily, ready to write her name on the line and thus conclude the report. An affectionate voice startled her a little.
"Go home and get some sleep, luv." Nigel grinned from the doorstep. The door had been left ajar, so that she wouldn't have to get up each time somebody knocked. Garret still hadn't gotten rid of Slocum's security measures, which meant that anybody who wanted to enter an office had to know the code for that specific room.
She smiled back. "I will, Nige." She signed the report and looked back at him. "Done!"
"Nigel," another voice made her heart skip a beat. She was so not ready for another round of bickering. "Good I've found you. Our lab is too busy." Woody was standing in front of her office, talking to the criminologist and ignoring her completely. "And sloppy," he added quickly. "I was wondering if you could take a look at these tapes."
"Sure, mate," Nigel retorted. "But I think you should first see the autopsy report. Jordan had just finished it." With that, he moved out of the doorway, making a passage for Woody. It was an awkward situation. Woody didn't want to come in, and Jordan didn't want him to, either. Nigel seemed oblivious of that.
Finally, Jordan got up from her chair and walked to the front of her desk. Holding the report, she extended her arm. "Here it is. I think that you will have to look for another suspect," she addressed the detective.
As he frowned and took a few steps towards the report, Nigel mumbled something like: "I'll leave you two to talk it over." and hurried out of the room, closing the door behind him. It was high time these two smoothed out whatever there was to smooth out.
Jordan groaned inwardly when she heard the door lock automatically. She didn't like the idea of being alone with Woody in such a small place, even if she really could leave whenever she wanted.
He spoke first. "What do you mean by that? Why would I have to find another suspect?"
"Because Jacob Reilly was killed by somebody who is tall at least six foot two," she replied calmly. "And his wife is barely five foot five."
"So what?" He almost snorted. "She could have been wearing high heels."
"No," she shook her head, "you know as well as I do that she was wearing sneakers. Besides, why would a strong, healthy man allow a woman to cuff-"
"What?" he interrupted. "Don't tell me you've never played with those?" He had no intention of holding back his snide remarks.
"To cuff," she resumed, ignoring him, "and stab him. It just doesn't make any sense and you know it." Restraining herself was getting more difficult by the second. "So if you would just stop being such-"
"Just fax me the report," he cut her off, turning to leave.
"Fine," she practically yelled at his back, "just go away." Bitterness was more than audible in her voice. Restraining herself had become a mission impossible. "That's all you know, anyway."
His apparent calmness was driving her insane. That was one of Max's favorite tricks when she had been a teenager – he'd just ignore her outbursts, fully aware that that would enrage her even more if possible. She simply hated that feeling – the feeling of being a complete idiot, an irrational lunatic screaming her head off while the other party was just looking at her, mildly amused. Nevertheless, her current sparring - so to say - partner was obviously not as cold-blooded as her dad. Woody's hand slipped off the doorknob and he turned on his heel to face her. There was so much anger in his features that her heart stopped for a moment.
"What do you want?" he hissed.
Great, that was another of Max's techniques – keeping his voice as low as possible, so that she seemed even more hysterical. Oh God, were all men cast in the same mold? Or, was that psychological mumbo-jumbo true? Did a girl always have to fall for somebody who resembled her dad? He was even a police officer… no, a homicide detective, for crying out loud!
Thoughts like these sprinted through Jordan's mind, but she didn't voice any of them. When she did speak, her tone was much lower than a minute before, but still extremely irritated.
"I want you to listen to the evidence!" She waved him her autopsy report.
"No, I mean, what do you want?" He was now in front of her, sparks of anger flying from his eyes. When she remained silent, he repeated, his face only a few inches from hers, "What do you want, Jordan?"
Had she been able to speak, she would have told him she wanted him out of her office and out of her life, forever. She would have told him she wanted to turn time back so that she would never meet him. But she wasn't, not with hot tears burning her eyes, so she just turned her head away from him, letting her curls hide her face like drapes. How could he treat her like that? At one point they had been the best of friends, and now they were the worst of enemies. It was funny how everything changed in a blink, in less than a blink.
While she was contemplating that, the man in front of her wasn't bothering with philosophical or any other questions. She was standing there, hotter than hell, and his body was telling him what to do. On the other hand, his mind was telling him what to do, as well. Naturally, he shut the mind off.
"Is this what you want?" His voice was a husky whisper.
He cupped her chin with his right hand, not gently at all. With his other hand, he pinned her to him. He pressed his lips into hers so hard that it was a painful experience for both. He was deliberately forceful, wanting to make her suffer, making her open her mouth for him, making her do what he wanted for once. Her arms were trapped between their bodies. Her hands, which were still clutching the report, were on his chest and she was trying to push him away. These attempts remained futile, however, as he was much stronger than her and currently had no qualms about using that fact to his advantage. Her mind's resistance to her body was equally fruitless, and her lips soon started responding to his.
Those were not gentle kisses, full of love and tenderness. They were kisses of passion, of need. Too much time and too many opportunities had been wasted. Too much water had been under the proverbial bridge. Neither of them sincerely believed that there was a chance for them as a couple somewhere along the road. But there was still the attraction – raw, physical, tormenting. There was the lust for the unknown, for what they hadn't had although they wanted it for so long. That was the moment for resolving all that pent-up sexual tension, for satisfying the need, satiating the hunger. Later, without sweet nothings, even without a simple "goodbye," they would move on, separate ways. They both knew it. Neither of them cared. They were too old, or better said too cynical, to believe in happily ever after. What was important was only there and then.
As she released him from their lip-lock and started working on his belt, he let his lips explore every inch of the bare skin above the v-neck of her blouse. At the same time, he lifted her skirt a little and was taking care of her thigh-highs. He was rolling them down at just the right pace – not too fast and not too slow. All the while, his thumbs were rubbing small circles into her inner thighs. Still fumbling over his pants, she let out a shallow moan. His lips, which had found their way back to hers via her neck, where they had left a pleasantly moist trail, caught it.
That was more than enough foreplay for both of them, so he helped her onto her desk. Feeling the cold and hard desktop beneath her was almost like having a cold shower. She had been reminded where they were and why they weren't in her big, soft bed, where oh-so-many other things for the pleasure of them both could be done, over and over again. Because he didn't love her. That's why they weren't there. Nevertheless, she didn't care at the moment. She didn't want him to stop. His fingers under her blouse, waging a war with her overpaid lavender bra, simply felt so good. But, just as his hands moved downwards again and his mouth once more got busy with her cleavage, her eyes fell onto the couch on the other side of the office.
"Not even the couch, but the desk!" something inside her suddenly screamed as she fidgeted on the wooden desktop, which was everything but comfortable. "His pleasure is all he cares about. You love him and you're gonna be just an item on his "10 Most Exciting Places You've Ever Had a Shag" list at Nigel's next truth or dare party. Is that what you want? Is that what you want?!"
Her body was telling her mind to shut up as she inhaled sharply, waves of pleasure spreading through her while he ran his hand up her thigh again, singeing her skin. Her legs wrapped themselves around him. Only a fraction of a moment later, she untangled her fingers from his hair and pretty gently, but firmly, pushed him away. When she later thought about that, she never knew from where she'd gotten the strength. Using the moment of his surprise, she slid past him. When he instinctively reached for her, she looked him straight in the eye, her vision blurred by yet another disappointment in men and her body shivering with the unfulfilled longing.
"No, that… this isn't what I want," she said, taking another step backwards, her voice a bit louder than intended. She was talking to herself more than to him. "Not like this," she added quietly, turning around and heading to the window, straightening her skirt along the way.
He heard her words: "Not like this." As he was trying to process that, he saw her shoulders shake with the sobs she was trying to smother. Great, now she was crying! Just what he needed. He'd thought she wanted it, too. Why the hell was she weeping now? Women. Who could ever understand them? That hardened part of him was thinking along these lines. But Tin Man still had a heart somewhere, so he eventually was able to understand where she was coming from. He hadn't been as much as civil to her and then he had jumped at the first opportunity to get her laid. He had been going to use her as a mere means of his own satisfaction, using the fact that her body was still responding to his. Not even for a moment had he thought that she might have feelings, much less that he could hurt them. And, if he was going to be honest with himself, he probably wouldn't have minded hurting them. Actually, he might have enjoyed it. What on earth had he become?
"Jordan…" He was awkwardly standing in the middle of the office, not knowing what to do. He knew what he wanted, though. He wanted to take her into his arms and kiss her tears away, tell her that it had never been about sex, that he… well, that he… he… well, he cared about her. He couldn't do that, however.
Still staring through the window, but not seeing a thing, she just waved her hand, urging him to go away. But he felt he couldn't go, not yet. He quickly took care of his pants and belt, and then tried again.
"Jordan," his voice was dripping with self-reproach, an emotion he hadn't felt for a long time. "I'm sorry; I don't know what got into me… I-"
"Please, just leave." was all she said. She didn't feel capable of talking. Moreover, she couldn't see the need for it. Everything had been said. Or, better said, shown. What he had wanted was a quick, meaningless fuck. What she had wanted was snuggling on a cold night, breakfast in bed, pillow talk. What she wanted now was not to see him. Ever again. It really wasn't safe to love anybody.
Reckoning that all he could achieve by an attempt to comfort her would be a fight, he decided to obey her. A few moments later, she heard a soft click as the door closed behind him. She crumbled to the floor, with her back against the infamous desk, crying soundlessly.
Yay, another note :) : In case you were wondering why Jordan was wearing thigh-highs at work (because I get that question from my mom and some (and always the same, grr) friends all the time - not about Jordan, but about me :)) - you look much better in tight clothes if you're wearing them instead of the ordinary ones (and they're more comfortable; and here they served another purpose, i.e. they enabled me to write something that even remotely resembles a hot scene). Anyways, please pardon this part of the note as my usual rambling... :)
And I'll be spoilerish (hope the author won't kill me :) ): as great minds think alike :)), I've got a feeling you might soon be reading another take on Sex & the Office (which, in fact, should have been published before this one). :)