Disclaimer: I do not own Crossing Jordan.
Note: I'm getting better - it took me only eleven days to update, yay! (And this chapter is... hmmm... kind of long.)
Mexwojo, BugFan4Ever and CLD, thanks so much for your reviews. :)
"Get out of my house!" Meghan Reilly sprang from her black Barcelona chair. She was trembling with anger.
Woody sighed, glancing down at the dark herringbone-patterned parquet, before he stood up from his faux leather chair. He was glad to do that – that piece of furniture may seem pretty comfy, but his back was already starting to hurt. Everything in the room seemed overly angular and kind of sterile to him. Well, the glass-and-wood coffee table was nice…
Mrs. Reilly's voice brought him back to reality.
"Now!" The woman motioned towards the hall.
"Mrs. Reilly, calm down, please. I was merely stating the facts."
Shaking her head, she ran a hand through her frizzy auburn hair. "How can you even think that Jake would do such a thing? He'd never kill himself!"
"The other option is that somebody else hired the killer," retorted the detective, disregarding her accusing stare.
She flashed him a bitter little smile. "And by 'somebody' you mean me." A brief silence ensued. "Detective, I loved my husband." She bit her lip. "I love my husband. And the only thing that stops me from falling to pieces is that I know I have to take care of our kids, of his kids. I don't want the damn money. If he really did it because of that money, I'll give it to a charity, I'll throw it out the window, I'll burn it…" She was looking at him intently, and he saw her green eyes sparkle with tears. "Maybe that will convince you."
Jordan tossed a sheet over the old man who'd gotten caught in crossfire, and Nigel furrowed his brow. She'd usually sew the victim up herself and not leave that part of the job to one of the assistants.
She noticed the look in his eyes, and hurried to speak before he could ask any inconvenient question. "Nigel, can you check these for me, please?"
"Sure thing, luv." He took the Petri dish containing two bullets from her. "That is my job, you know?" He smiled. "And you're not getting it, no matter how hard you try. So you'd better stop trying and get some sleep."
His attempt to hide his concern with a lame joke wasn't greatly appreciated.
"Technically, it's the BPD Crime Lab's job. And I sleep just fine, thank you," Jordan barked at him. For the first time she wished she was still working for Bernie, surrounded by his minions. Back in L.A. nobody gave a shit about how she felt, which obviously did have some advantages. "Now, if you're not going to check them, I will." She reached for the dish.
Nigel shielded it with his hand. "I'll test them, Jordan," he said wearily. "I'm just worried about you. We all are."
"Well, no need to be," she told him in her best carefree voice. Not able to stand his gaze any longer, she turned and headed towards the trash can. "Really. I've been staying up late lately. I've rediscovered some old DVD's," she continued in the same manner. "Plus, I shouldn't have taken Lily's advice. That day cream isn't all that wicked awesome. Gives me a grayish hue, don't cha think?" She turned in his direction, giving him what she hoped to seem like a genuine smile. "Well, I guess human foreskin isn't for everyone, huh?" she concluded, throwing her latex gloves into the can.
Although she hadn't managed to fool him with her flippancy, Nigel couldn't but grin. He still had trouble believing that their resident grief counselor would rub that into her face every morning. "No, I guess it's not." When Jordan just kept on fumbling with her wristwatch for some time, he added, "Okay then, we'll have the results in no time."
"Thanks, Nige," she said quietly, more grateful that he wasn't pushy than for the tests he was going to do.
When the criminologist left Autopsy Two, she pressed her fingertips to her temples and started rubbing in small circles. She felt as though a giant sledgehammer was at work inside her head. She closed her eyes, but opened them almost instantly, shaking her head slightly. No, she couldn't sleep; she couldn't see all those things again, she couldn't…
"Hey," came a voice from the doorway, and she tensed.
Her greeting was preceded by an internal curse. He was the last person she could deal with when she felt like this.
"Emy," Woody jerked his thumb in the general direction of the door, "told me Dr. Macy was here. I spoke with him earlier, and he said I could stop by at four." He checked his watch. "He should be doing the autopsy on my shooting vic."
"Yeah, well, he's called it a day," she explained. "Maggie called. Something to do with Abby." A small sigh escaped her. Whatever it was that Chief M.E.'s only daughter had done this time, it was enough to make him flush that peculiar shade of pink before storming off. "I already did the autopsy. Had nothing to do and the room was free…" She focused on the door. "I'll fax you the preliminary report till the end of the day."
Woody noticed on what she was concentrating. He had no intention of leaving, and he positioned himself so that she wasn't able to slide past him. "You think that's a good idea?"
"What?"
"Framus told me you were the responding M.E. on her latest case, Jordan." She was standing in front of him now, and he winced inwardly upon a closer look of her face. It had some strange greenish-grayish color. Except for the black half-circles under her red eyes, that was. "That means you did a pick-up at four a.m. this morning. And you're still working. And you clearly have no intention of leaving for at least a few hours."
"And your point is?"
Her snappiness didn't touch him. "Don't you think it's a bit too much, Jordan?" he asked her softly.
"Don't be ridiculous." She rolled her eyes. "This is hardly the first time I've pulled a double."
He went on in the same tone. "Go home, Jordan. Get some rest. You-"
"Don't tell me what to do," she cut him off. She had to get out of there, immediately. She squeezed her eyes shut to get rid of the colorful specks dancing in front of her eyes, blurring her vision. "I-" She felt her legs give way. She reached for an anchor, but grabbed air.
"Jordan!" He caught her by the arms as she was falling. "Jordan!" The rising panic threatened to overwhelm him. "You okay?" he asked, exhaling in relief when her eyes opened.
She nodded slightly. It was all she could do. Her tongue was dry, and her head heavy as lead.
"Jordan!" He held her, and she let him do it. Possible consequences not once entered his mind. Her mind was still in a haze – words, blood, chemicals and spinning white walls all blending into one, creating a hell-like fusion. Her instinct was telling her not to move; another movement would mean another fall.
He couldn't keep quiet about her unhealthy look any more. "How long has it been since you slept?" he inquired, not really expecting an answer. Realizing he was probably gripping her too tight, he put an arm around her waist to shift her into a more comfortable position. His fingers brushed her ribs, and he was able to feel them through her clothes. Sure, Jordan had had her skinny phases, but this was… "How long has it been since you ate?"
By that time, the specks had disappeared and she'd regained her balance. She fidgeted a little, and he let her go, sighing. Then he took her by the hand and opened the door. "C'mon."
She didn't move. "Excuse me?"
"No excuses. You're going to eat. Immediately. I'm-" He stopped mid-sentence, reconsidering his plan to order in. Though he wanted them to talk in private, he didn't think she'd like to stay alone with him in a confined space. "We're going to Gianpaolo's," he announced, walking through the door.
For once, she followed meekly. The little Italian restaurant round the corner sounded like a good idea right now. As far as she remembered, she had eaten a stale muffin yesterday morning.
"Woody, wait!" she started as they approached the locker rooms. "Wait!"
But he was a man on a mission. "You need to eat, Jordan."
She genuinely smiled for the first time in some time. "I also need to change." She stopped, and he turned to face her. "I don't think they'd like it if I sat there in bloody scrubs. I reckon that might scare some customers off," she explained.
"Oh," he breathed, realization filling his features. "Sure."
She stepped into the women's locker room, and he followed. A half-smile on her lips, she turned.
"Woody?" The smile widened when his eyebrows shot up. "I don't need help changing."
Looking down and mumbling something incomprehensible, he left the room, lightening up when he heard her chuckle behind his back.
"So, how's the Reilly case going?" Jordan asked when they were sitting at a back table in the rustique little Italian place.
"I'm at the dead end." Woody tapped his fingers on the cotton tablecloth with little red-and-white squares. "The worst thing is that I know what happened, but I can't find the creep. His fingerprint didn't match with anything."
"What about the wife?" Jordan asked after helping herself to her garden salad. "Nige tells me you still aren't sure about her role in everything."
"I paid her a visit yesterday morning," he said. "Let's just say I'm sure now. You were right. She didn't have anything to do with it," he confessed. "I was wrong about a lot of things lately." He hesitated a little before he went on, "Jordan, I-"
"Woody…" she interrupted, putting her fork down. "Don't start, please. I've told you a million times everything's okay."
"I know. But it's not okay. And I don't think only about… that situation in your office. I think about everything that's happened since I was shot. I've been a jerk." He talked fast, anticipating another interruption. "About everything."
"What do you want, Woody?" Tiredness was dripping from her voice.
"I want us to talk."
She attempted to counter his seriousness with a smile. "I was under the impression we're talking right now."
"You know what I mean, Jordan," he said almost sheepishly.
"Listen, Woody…" She took a deep breath. "I think that all's been said when it comes to you and me. I said some stupid things, and I'm sorry they upset you."
His was in a spin. What she was sorry for? Before he was able to speak, she continued.
"There you go: I'm sorry, you're sorry. I forgive you, you forgive me. All's fine and dandy." She stood up. "Gotta go now."
"Jordan, please…" He stood up too. "What I said at the hospital-"
She was shaking her head as she said, "I don't wanna talk about it." Her voice was gruff.
He insisted, "I was messed up, but I've been dealing with my problems, and-"
"I get it. This is part of your therapy. Fine. Okay. Well." She waved her hand around while she spoke, ignoring the funny looks of the family sitting at the table next to theirs – mom, dad and a little dark-haired girl gripping a chocolate-brown teddy bear. "I already told you – you've been forgiven. Really gotta go now."
"Just another minute, Jordan. Please," he pleaded. His words intermingled with the little girl's whiny: "Make Teddy sing, daddy! Make him sing!"
"The hospital, Riggs, the crime scene, your office…" Woody raised his voice a notch in order to be heard. "I know I hurt you, Jordan. And I know that words don't mean much. But I want you to know I'm your friend. I want to be your friend. You can trust me. You can tell me anything." 'God, why does everything sound so lame?' "I care about you so much, Jordan. You mean so much to me…" From the look in her eyes he could tell that she wasn't getting it or maybe she didn't want to get it. He was becoming desperate, searching for the right words, which he simply couldn't find. She was going to walk away any moment. What the hell, he'd say it, even if it scared her. It had been left unsaid much longer than it should have. "I love you, Jordan."
The words were muffled by the chocolate-brown teddy bear's deafening performance of "Happy Birthday" and its little owner's uncontrollable giggles. He wasn't even sure whether she'd heard him.
"I can't do this," she muttered, striding towards the exit.
She didn't go back to the morgue. She caught a cab home. As soon as she slammed the door behind her, she hurried to the bedroom. She threw herself on the bed, fully dressed, and pulled the comforter over her head. Curled into a ball, she willed herself to sleep but rest wasn't forthcoming.
I love you, Jordan.
It played in her head again and again. She felt salty tears on her lips and dried her eyes with her knuckles. She was right – he did love her. He was sincere; she didn't doubt it for a moment. But it was too late. He didn't know her secret. If he did… Well, there were two options. He'd run for the hills. Or he'd stay. And he would only stay out of pity. He'd be afraid of hurting her, so he'd stay. Would he? Why would he stay? And hadn't he hurt her before? He'd get bored of her real soon, she couldn't think about as much as a kiss without shuddering. But he loved her. He did. Yeah, but…
Whatever. It was too late.
"I want to kill him." Woody was pacing the width of Dr. Stiles's office. "I'm going to kill him," he said matter-of-factly.
"You think that's the solution?" the doctor asked him in a conversational tone.
"I know that won't erase what happened. But I'll feel hell lotta better," he responded, clenching his hands into fists.
"Really?" Stiles's voice now had a hint of doubt.
"Yes." Woody said without thinking. "No. I don't know," he eventually conceded. "I can't just sit around and do nothing."
"Wouldn't offering support be somewhat more constructive?"
The younger man gave his best sarcastic voice a shot. "So, I'm supposed to tell her: 'Hey, Jordan-'" He made a mental note to kill himself. "Crap!"
"I did have my doubts." Stiles tried to soothe him. "Everybody at the morgue knows everything about everybody else there, you know." And that was truth, especially with that lanky British gossipmonger around. The "friendship" between this detective and a certain M.E. was an open secret.
When the detective remained mute for a time, the doctor spoke again. "If you're so sure that your course of action is right, why are you here, then? And not using that guy like a punching bag?"
Woody countered with a question. "What do you think?"
"Oh, I don't know. I'm so damn good at what I do that you've seen the light." Stiles grinned.
"Yeah, right." Woody rolled his eyes. "I don't have a freaking idea who the creep might be. I checked all records from the previous month and nothing."
"Maybe it happened earlier," suggested the state psychiatrist.
"No." The detective rubbed the back of his neck. "It happened recently. She's too… jumpy, for lack of a better word." His pace quickened. "But I can't believe that she didn't report it. Of all the women…"
"There can be many reasons-"
He didn't even wait for Stiles to finish. "Well, none of them is right," he cut in, coming to a halt.
"I didn't tell it was," Stiles retorted. After a moment of silence, he resumed, "So, do you see a pattern here? Whenever things get out of control, you get angry."
Woody tensed. "And you don't? You just shrug and say, 'Oh, what the hell, that's the way life is.'?"
"Anger is natural," the doctor responded. "But one must learn how to keep it in check."
The detective ran a hand through his already messy hair. "Why?"
"Do you feel good after your fits?" inquired the doctor. "Or you come to me and tell me how you hate yourself because you've hurt somebody you care for?" When the other man's face fell, he added, "Letting it all out isn't healthy, no matter what they tell you."
"I know," Woody admitted reluctantly.
Stiles leaned forward. "So why do you keep doing it?"
"I'm trying not to. I'm trying real hard." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "But it's like every little thing makes me mad."
"Oh, I'd say it's every other little thing now." The doctor flashed him a smile.
"I am trying."
"I'd say you do." Stiles nodded. "So, you still have nightmares?"
"I didn't have one last night or the night before."
"Good."
"Actually, I had a dream about Dad the other night. It was really more like a memory," Woody started explaining. "He, Cal and I were ice fishing. We did that sometimes when I was a kid. Those were my favorite days. I'd ask Dad, 'Can we stay and here?' At the lake, Dad was… a dad. He laughed, he really talked with us, he really listened… Cal'd sometimes ask about Mom, and Dad would actually respond. As soon as we'd get home, he'd go to work. He was always working. And when he was at home, he'd open a beer, listen to the same six Kinks songs or watch a game, and then go to sleep. At home, he never spoke about Mom. When Cal got older, he'd ask questions, and then they would fight. By the time Cal was a teenager, they'd almost stop communicating altogether. I was trying to smooth things out, but nothing really worked. Cal started to hang out with all the wrong people. He'd come home buzzed more often than not. Not that Dad would notice," he shrugged, "he was always at work. And he always looked so tired that I just couldn't tell him about Calvin. I thought I could handle my brother. I guess I was wrong."
"It isn't-"
"Yeah," Woody interrupted, "I know it isn't my fault that Cal's turned out the way he has." He sighed. He should really call his brother and see what was going on with him. "But it isn't Dad's fault, either. I'm not saying he was a good father. But I… When Mom died… He couldn't cope." He frowned. "I'm not saying that he shouldn't have tried harder. I'm just saying that I'm not angry at him, I feel sorry for him." He looked up at Stiles, expecting his reaction.
The doctor nodded. "What about his death?" he inquired. "Are you still angry at him because of how he died?"
"I was angry, and I felt betrayed," Woody confessed. "But now… I'm still angry with that punk. I guess that will never change… But Dad… How can I be mad at him when I've made the same mistake?" His lips twisted in an imitation of a smile. "We all make mistakes, huh?"
"Even I do," Stiles said cheerfully. "Rarely, of course."
The other man sighed. "I just want to stop making the same mistake over and over again. I wanna stop lashing out on people."
"Feeling anger is normal after traumatic events," said Stiles, this time in his most professional voice. "I'll recommend you an anger management class. A friend of mine teaches it. He's an expert in the field." He reached for the top-right drawer of his desk. "You can come chat with me when you feel like it. Once a week or month if you'd like. But I think you'll be fine as long as you remember that no man can save everybody and that not every bad thing that happens to somebody you care about is your fault." He handed Woody a calling card. "And as long as you keep your temper under control."
It was the detective's turn to grin. "So I'm not a complete wacko?"
"I'd say you're not." Stiles smiled back. "But even I make mistakes, remember?"
Jordan pulled her cell phone from her purse, muttering another curse targeted at her forgetfulness. Not having a watch on her was deeply unsettling. She hated it when she didn't know what time it was. A glance at the cell established that it was only nine. That meant she had been scribbling the report for half an hour only.
"Knock-knock!" A singsong voice from the doorway startled her.
"Howard! What are you doing here?"
Stiles's smile widened at the annoyance she wasn't trying to hide. "You did always have nice manners."
"You don't make social calls. So, who was it?" she got straight to the point. "Who called you this time, Howie?"
He arched an eyebrow. "Why would anybody call me?"
'Yeah, right. Nobody played Mother Theresa this time. Nobody whispered secretively, Howard, Jordan's gone cuckoo again. Come immediately!' She made a pitiful attempt at a sincere smile. "If this is a social call, I'm flattered but I'm sorry, Howard – I've got work to do."
He wasn't giving up so easily. "If you insist, your yearly evaluation is due these days."
She gaped. That was a blatant lie. "No, it's not," she claimed. "It's not."
"Well, technically, it's due next month," he admitted. "But I'll be dabbling in the Pacific then, so we might as well get it over with, huh?" he finished merrily.
"Or not," she deadpanned. "We can do it when you get back, Howard. I'm kind of busy."
His face became serious, just like his voice. "With what, Jordan? Self-destruction again?"
"Look, I don't wanna be rude, but I don't have time to listen to that right now," he explained him in a firm voice. "These reports won't write themselves, you know?" She pointed at the stack of manila folders on her left. "And I'm perfectly fine, thanks for asking."
"You know you can't go on like that, Jordan. You're not sleeping," he chastised her. "Knowing you, probably not eating, either. Your practically don't have nails." She followed his gaze to the stubs, wondering when that had happened. "If you don't feel comfortable talking to me," continued Howard, "I can recommend you-"
"What d'ya want, Howard?" Her patience was pretty limited, even more so these days. She stood up from her office chair.
"I want to help you," he said earnestly.
"Well, you know what they say – you can't always get what you want," she retorted, breezing past him out of the office.
Although she was over ninety-nine percent sure Howard wouldn't follow her, Jordan glanced over her shoulder before seeking refuge in Trace. She was relieved when she saw that the only people there were Bug and Nigel. They were hovering over a body.
"Hey, guys, got anything interesting?" she asked in what she hoped to be her ordinary voice.
"Only Phormia Regina." Bug looked up, his goggles in place.
Jordan approached to get a better look of the pretty gross thingy the entomologist was holding with pincers. "You know, Bug, that even sounds vaguely familiar, but I'd appreciate it if you used English."
"Black blow fly," he answered crankily. One would think people would memorize the name – the insect had been present in dozens of cases last year only.
The English name didn't mean much more to Jordan than the Latin one. "And the guy is?" she inquired.
This time, Nigel replied. "We have no idea. No ID on him. Found this morning hanging from a branch in the Boston Common. Suicide, most probably."
Bug continued from there. "Rigor's passed, so he's been dead for more than thirty-six hours. By the larval stage in which these are, I'd say he's not been dead for more than two or three days. I'm going to put them into the environmental chamber to get more accurate results." He slipped through the door, carrying his precious specimen.
Nigel occupied his usual seat and started typing. "I'll check the fingerprints in the meantime." He glanced towards Jordan. "Hopefully, we'll have more luck than we did with Woody's hitman."
"Yeah, I heard about that," she said, sitting on the edge of Nige's desk. "And to think I thought my landlord would eventually track me down using my SSN. Ah, all that money could have been spent in a wiser way…"
"Well, to find someone using their SSN, you need to know their SSN, luv," Nigel pointed out.
She frowned. "What do you mean you don't know his SSN? If it's not on the lease agreement, it has to be on his checking account application. I mean, Mrs. Reilly's tenant was paying the rent to her, right? I guess she'd be a bit suspicious if he was paying cash for an apartment in that building."
"Since Reilly probably wrote the agreement himself, I'd say it's understandable why his hitman's social security number isn't on it," he clarified. "And, apparently, you don't have to give your SSN to a bank."
"You don't?" She wasn't convinced yet. "What about the Patriot Act?"
"It's their policy to ask for your number, but you can – more or less – prove that it's illegal to demand it in order to open you an account." He turned away from the keyboard, having finally started the application. "If you know a few things about law, that is."
The computer beeped. Nigel's eyes widened. Jordan jumped from where she'd been sitting and came to stand behind him.
"How did you get a match so fast?" she asked.
"It matched a print from our database."
He clicked on the case number. In a fraction of a second, a name appeared in front of them. John Doe's print was exactly the same as the one found at the crime scene of the murder of Reilly, Jacob E.