Title: Reunion

Author: Fins-Best-Friend

Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue.

Chapter 1

"But what if it did? Who knows who's next of the government hit list?"

Fin shook his head. He was beginning to get more than a little frustrated and annoyed with his partner. Where did he get these ideas? "Look, man, the government did not shoot down JFK and no one we should be worried about is on some crazy government hit list. Shut up and do your paperwork."

John was about to reply when Don Cragen stepped from his office. "Who's catching?"

Olivia and Elliot were both at a crime scene someone had called in about an hour back. Munch and Fin were the only detectives in the squadroom, and were, therefore, the only ones available.

Cragen continued without waiting for one of them to reply. "We've got two victims in Bellevue, mother's forty, daughter's seventeen. They're both lightly sedated for now, but the doctor says they should be awake by the time or soon after you get there."

Eager for something to do besides paperwork, Fin slapped his file folder shut and stood. "Come on, old man." he grabbed his coat and keys, "I'm drivin'."

As John stood and reached for his coat, Cragen gripped his shoulder. "Be careful on this one, John. This will get personal for you. I wouldn't be sending you if Liv and Elliot were here. Don't hesitate to take a few days off, got it?"

Puzzled, the detective nodded before striding through the room and out the door. Why would this case get personal? A repeat victim? A repeat perp? A family member? Ex-wife? Someone from his old homicide unit? Best not to think about it, he decided. He would find out soon enough.

Fin was holding the elevator for him. "If your skinny butt moved any slower, it'd be stopped." he said as his partner stepped past him into the box, still wrestling with an inside out coat sleeve.

When John failed to respond, Fin knew something was not right. "What, no smart answers? You losin' your touch in your old age?"

Munch gave him a warning glare, but did not answer verbally.

So Fin continued. "Come on, what's wrong? Oh, I know. Someone gave you undeniable proof that it was Lee Harvey Oswald and not a greedy LBJ?"

Another glare. "Not the time, Fin." he answered, his voice sounding more like a growl than a human voice.

Fin decided that it was probably best to shut up. After a few moments, the awkward silence in the elevator was broken by Munch.

"Look, sorry about that. I honestly don't know what's wrong. Cragen wouldn't tell me. Just that it would get personal."

Fin nodded in understanding as they made their way down the front steps to where his car was waiting. Almost a year ago, a case had gotten personal for him, too, and the last thing he had wanted to do was talk about it. So he changed the subject. "You honestly believe that LBJ orchestrated Kennedy's assassination?"

Munch stared at his partner over the rims of his glasses as Fin started the car. "He had motive, knowledge, and capacity. He was at least a suspect."

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Bellevue Hospital

October 29

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"This guy really did a number on the girl. We put the cast on her arm while she was asleep."

"He broke her arm?" John asked as the doctor led him and Fin down the hall to the victims' room.

The doctor nodded and continued. "Yes, Zita, age seventeen, has a broken arm, a few fractured ribs, some cuts and bruises – nothing life-threatening. The mother, age forty, has only some cuts and abrasions, some bruises here and there. Physically, they'll be OK. Emotionally, who knows? Rapes can destroy peoples' lives, as you well know. At a guess, the girl woke up in time to fight back, but the mother was still doped up on chloroform when we got them. The girl probably passed out again after she sustained the major injuries. They were both pretty stressed out when they woke up, so we sedated them so they could get some sleep. That's when we called the numbers on the contact cards the other detectives sent us from the crime scene. After our doctors were sure rapes had occurred, we called you guys. Their rape kits are being processed now."

"Who was on these contact cards?" Fin asked.

"Bodyguards. An Etienne Dupont and a Xavier Cousteau. They said that the victims had told them to wait at their hotel room and that they would be all right. They'll be here as soon as they can. It could be a while, though. I hear traffic's pretty bad right now. When she got here, the mother also mentioned your name, Detective Munch. You might be able to help her until they get here."

Fin nodded when Munch did not answer making a mental note to mention her bringing up his partner's name later. "Where are they staying?"

"The Ritz, under the name O'Malley, one of them said. Just in case one of the doctors or the police needed to get a hold of them when and if they ever left the hospital after getting there. The bodyguards were pretty upset about what happened, as you can imagine. The time they agree to let them go somewhere alone, this happens. They're both blaming themselves."

O'Malley. John drew in a sharp breath, hoping Fin had not noticed. O'Malley had been the last name of one of his last partners in Baltimore, not to mention the first real love of his life – the only real love of his life, really. At least until she stabbed him in the back by running off and marrying that stuffy French diplomat, Plouvin. It had broken his heart and it was still mending seventeen years later. When he learned that she had deserted him, he had almost broken down. He had already purchased the engagement ring and was in the process of setting up a proposal when his captain introduced him to his new partner. John fury had lasted for days. I had had to; it was the only thing strong enough to cover up his pain. She had promised him that she would be true to him and she lied, tossing him and his dreams in the proverbial gutter. Not only that, but when he had called the number the his UN contact had given him numerous times, looking for answers, her husband and father told him that she had forgotten him. After all they had been through together, after all he had done for her, she had forgotten him, leading him on a search for another woman who could mean the same to him as she had. After several failed attempts at love, he had all but given up. Of course, the fact that he had not gotten rid of the seventeen-year-old engagement ring did not help anything, but this forced reunion? Maybe he would be taking a few days off.

The doctor finished his information-giving (the vast majority of which Munch had missed) as they arrived at the door. "Here we are, room 509. The daughter's on the far side, behind the curtain."

Munch and Fin stood in the doorway as the doctor left. Munch's face did not know how to react. It was her. Bowan O'Malley – well, Bowan Plouvin, now. Oh, cut the crap, John. his mind told him, You still want her to be Bowan Munch. He heard his mind, but decided to ignore it. This was going to get messy enough without him going slightly schizophrenic.

"I'll take the mother. You take the girl."

Fin saw the discomfort on his partner's face. Munch had history with the mother, he could see it on his face. This was going to get very personal. "You sure?"

John nodded. "Yeah, I need to do this."

Still uncomfortable with leaving his partner alone with his past and emotions, Fin relented and stepped behind the curtain separating the room.

When Fin disappeared, John sighed and lowered himself slowly into the chair beside the sleeping woman. He did not want to care anymore, but he did. It pained him more than he allowed himself to admit to see her like this – beaten, raped, and sedated in a hospital bed. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her face.

"Bowan, Bowan, Bowan. What are we going to do with each other?"

xXx

When Fin entered the curtained enclosure, the girl was already sitting up in her bed, staring out the window. Thinking that she had not heard him come in, he jumped in surprise when she acknowledged him.

"Bonjour." she said, her eyes never leaving the bustling city below her.

Shoot. Fin thought as he sat down in the chair beside the bed. The doctor had warned them that these two were from France. I knew those bodyguards' names didn't sound American.

Fin's parents had made him take French I in highschool but he had forgotten most of it. He had to think hard to remember what he still knew, and most of it was more than very rusty.

"Parlez-vous anglais?" he asked, wincing at his bad accent. His mother would have killed him if she had heard.

Zita could not help but smile. At least he had tried to get it right. "Yes, detective, I speak fluent English, though, I wouldn't suggest you try to go to any French-speaking countries any time soon." she answered in a thick Irish accent, just like her mother's.

"Advice taken. How did you know I was a detective?" he asked, smiling at over at the girl. She was polite, but not afraid to speak her mind. He liked her already.

"Who else would be in here? The press don't know I'm here, and the doctors won't let anyone besides family, bodyguards, or the police in here without our or Pierre's permission, so they wouldn't have gotten in here anyway. I've never seen you before and you don't look like a doctor. Besides, detectives tend to be able to spot other detectives without asking as to their occupation," she answered, turning to face him, "or seeing their badge. Other than that it was a random guess."

Fin nodded again. It was not hard for him to believe that she was a detective from somewhere – so observant and on top of what was going on around her. But she was so young, too. "You're a detective? At seventeen?"

"French Secret Service and undercover common Paris Police Detective Zita Plouvin. Done a little work for Interpol – stings and such. Teenagers are the perfect undercover agents – who would suspect them of being cops? Most would think they're the miscreants, rather than the ones that catch them. The man who will introduce himself as my father, Pierre, doesn't know this and isn't to know about this, all right? My mother knows, and that's enough. You can't tell him. You have no idea the repercussions."

Who is this girl? A forty-five-year-old trapped in an adolescent's body? Fin thought. "Secret's safe. You say you're French . . . Zita, is it?"

She nodded. "By legal citizenship only. I was born in the black Harlem, en route to some fancy downtown Manhattan hospital. I'm American by birth. I refuse to believe that the Frenchman known to be my father really is, so perhaps my real father is here in America. For now, I'm an American in Paris in America."

"Then why don't you speak English with a French accent?"

"I can speak English in almost any accent, I've spent so much time at the UN, but my mother's the daughter of an Irish diplomat. She hasn't lived in Dublin since she was fifteen, but she never lost the accent. I learned the language with it." she answered, fingering a piece of thread that had slightly unraveled from the sling holding her arm. "But you didn't come here to talk about my citizenship or my accent, detective."

"Fin. Call me Fin."

"All right . . . Fin. Let's get the party started."

The older detective managed to hold back a laugh but could not hide the smile. She was pretty cavalier for a rape victim. But, he reasoned, she might see victims everyday. She would know, if she had been a detective any longer than a week, that panicking or becoming hysterical would only make the situation worse.

He sighed. "Did you get a look at the man that attacked you and your mother, Zita?"

She nodded.

"Could you describe him to a sketch artist or pick him out of a perp catalogue?"

Zita looked down at her hands. Pierre's bodyguard would not be in any perp catalogue and was probably on his way back to the chateau in the New York highlands, where Pierre was doubtlessly waiting for him. She did not know how to get there, nor did she know the address, but the chateau was not in any records, so it was not like it actually had one. No one would be seeing him in the city any time soon, and neither Pierre, nor his bodyguard, nor any of Pierre's other cronies would be in the system. It had been one of Pierre's first order of business when he got into the French parliament to effectively erase all of the records against his friends. It would be a hard case to get rolling. Or it would be, if Zita did not have the information needed to get started. Perhaps her revenge against Pierre and the other men who hurt her and her mother would be complete sooner than she had planned.

"I could," she answered, looking up at him, "but how 'bout I just give you his real name?"

Translation: Can you speak English?

Pronunciation: parlay vooz onglayz?