Title: Reunion

Author: Fins-Best-Friend

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

A/N: Sorry for the delay. My computer decided that it didn't want to read the floppy this was on, so I had to re-type the whole thing. FYI: I don't know of the workings of Interpol or the French police, so some of this information about those institutions are complete conjecture.

Chapter 4

Captain Cragen's Office

11:00 A.M

October 30, 2003

"All right, let me get this straight, John. The mother is an ex-partner of yours, an ex-partner you almost married, the daughter is a detective for the French common police and the French Secret Service, which could possibly bring European police into this mess, and you want me to keep you on this case?"

"Yes." John said, nodding once.

Cragen rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day – and it was not even noon. "And to top it all off, you offered to let them stay with you until they get on their feet in the States?"

Single nod again.

Cragen sighed. He hated to take John off this case, especially since he and Fin had already managed to establish a rapport with the Plouvins. Not only that, but John also seemed to have the most drive to catch this guy. However, John's history with Mrs. Plouvin could be a problem.

"If you do anything to jeopardize this investigation, you're out. Understood?"

John nodded gratefully and emerged from the captain's office, a smug smile on his face. He had managed to get his way yet again.

"I gather from the expression on your face that His Boniness is still on the case?" Fin asked, glancing up from his seat behind the Mount Everest of paperwork he had abandoned for McGafferty's the night before. Was it his imagination, or had it gotten higher? Significantly?

"Yes, he and his faithful court jester remain on the job, unless I do something stupid."

"Don't you mean until you do something stupid?"

John glared at him over the stack of folders. "Ha ha. You should have your own show."

"I don't need a show to tell me I'm funny." Fin answered. He held up a file. "You were the primary on this one. If you don't quit pushing your paperwork onto my desk, I'm gonna –"

A phone rang, interrupting Fin mid-rant. "It was worth a shot." John mumbled, taking the file from Fin as his partner answered the phone.

"Tutuola . . . yes . . . yeah, I am."

There was a few moments' pause while the person on the other end spoke.

"Around four? . . . All right, I'll tell 'im . . . A'ight . . . Thanks . . . Bye."

Fin returned the phone to it's cradle. "That was the hospital. Bowan and Zita are being discharged around four this afternoon. Nurse says their bodyguards should bring them by the precinct after they get their stuff from their hotel room."

"Then I guess it's a good thing I stayed up 'til three this morning cleaning." John answered, returning his attention to the form in front of him.

"Are you really gonna sleep on your couch until they find a place?"

"Well, Bowan and I are hardly as close as we were seventeen years ago, so, yeah, unless I want to sleep on the floor. Is my couch that uncomfortable?"

Fin shrugged. A year or so back, Munch had insisted on him staying with him after Fin had been discharged from the hospital. It had been a difficult case, made only slightly more so by the fact that the perps had set up an ambush and sent Fin to the hospital with a bullet in his shoulder. The invalid – as Munch had too gleefully referred to him as – had not woken up with any extra aches or pains after sleeping on the couch. Of course, the Vicadin the hospital had sent home with him might have had something to do with that.

"Did Zita tell you they have a dog, too?"

"You're letting a dog live in your apartment?" Fin asked incredulously, signing the bottom of a form. "Now I'm starting to believe all those alien-abduction-replacement theories of yours."

"Well, I'm glad to have shown you the light. If this whole dog-thing doesn't work out, you can bet he'll be going straight back to the Ritz with the bodyguards."

"What kind of dog is it?" Olivia asked frm her desk a few yards away.

John could not help but smile at the thought. Fin would never let him live this down. "It's a miniature yorkie. His name is Sir Reginald III. They call him Reggie."

Fin did not even try to hold back a laugh. "Are you kidding? Not only is it a dog, but it's a lapdog? I wonder if I can talk Zita into installing a few video cameras or something. 'D love to see your reaction to that in the morning!"

John glared at him from above the rims of his glasses. "I'm not meriting that comment with a response."

"You just responded." Elliot said, delivering the detectives' second round of morning caffeine.

John just snorted as his colleagues smiled behind their hands.

2:30 P.M.

"Crime scene evidence came back." Olivia said as she and Elliot returned to the squadroom. "Whoever this guy is, he's good. No witnesses, no evidence left behind at all besides the DNA found in the rape kits, DNA that isn't in our system. For all we know, Bruno isn't even his real name. We have no way of tracing him or his whereabouts. If he bought anything since he arrived in America, he paid cash. Trail's gone cold."

"Zita said that he'd probably head to some chateau-thing in the highlands. Unfortunately, there's no record of such a building or a Pierre Plouvin owning any land up there. She said she might be able to call in a few favors from a few friends in Interpol who might be able to get us that information. She says Bruno has a record, but he's served his time, at least for the crimes he's been collared for, so we might be able to get some help from the French police. Unfortunately, if he and Pierre ain't at the chateau, they're probably back in France." Fin said, flipping through his notebook.

"And neither Zita nor Bowan know the location of this mansion? What about the bodyguards?" Cragen asked.

Fin shook his head. "Zita said it didn't even have an address and Bruno was the one that drove there when they went. Again, she said she might be able to call in a favor."

"Well, head on over there and see if there's anything Zita or Bowan forgot they knew. We're gonna need all the help those two can provide."

"Bowan and Zita are being discharged around four this afternoon. Should we just wait until they get here?" John asked, removing his feet from the top of his desk.

Cragen thought about it for a few moments, then nodded. "They're probably under enough stress as it is. Wait 'til they get here. Besides, Casey'll have kittens if DD5s aren't filed by the time she gets here – in about forty-five minutes."

In seconds, the heads of all four detectives were bent down over their paperwork. No one knew the new ADA well enough to test her temper. You could never tell with lawyers.

Bellevue Hospital

Room 509

4:00 P.M.

Etienne and Xavier arrived at their charges' room with small duffflebags of clothes just as the nurse was leaving. She glared at them, sniffing the air. The nurse had caught the pair in their smuggling act that morning when the two men had tried to sneak into the room with four cups of coffee and half a dozen bagels. Despite their efforts to explain that the food was for themselves and that they would never dream of smuggling food into the patients, the nurse insisted that they eat the food in the hospital's cafeteria. So, after spending a few minutes in the crowded cafeteria, they wrapped the bagels in napkins and stowed them in their pockets with the carefully-placed remaining coffees and successfully smuggled them anyway. So far, the nurse had not found out.

This time, the bodyguards and the bags they were carrying were void of contraband – for the most part. Etienne fervently hoped that the nurse would not see the slightly-open dufflebag he was carrying wiggle or hear the faint whining noises it was emitting. After another dubious glance from the nurse, both men stepped quickly into the room. Bowan and Zita were sitting on Bowan's bed watching a movie in their hospital gowns.

"Ah, thank you! It's about time I got into some real clothes!" Zita said when Etienne passed her the bag containing her cloths, a mischievous grin on his face.

"What?" she asked, suddenly unsure of whether or not she really wanted to change so badly.

"Nothin'." Etienne replied. "Go change. The detectives are expecting us at the precinct and the traffic's getting bad."

Still doubting his honesty, she took the bag and headed into the room's bathroom. As the door shut, Xavier nudged his co-worker. "Voulez-vous lui donner une crise cardiaque?"

Before Etienne could answer, a scream was heard from the bathroom. Thankfully, the door was closed and the walls were thick enough for the sound not to have reached the hospital personnel.

"Etienne!" she cried, holding the yipping dog in her good arm. "You are such a boy!!!"

The bodyguard could not reply for laughing so hard. He and Zita often engaged in pranks on each other, but she was generally ready for his. Her reaction was priceless.

"Ah," said Xavier, "my suspicions are confirmed! I'm glad you haven't been lying about your gender all these years, Etienne."

Etienne stopped laughing. "What was that supposed to mean?"

Bowan rolled her eyes, muttering something about 'thirty going on twelve.' "Zita?" she called, "Hurry up in there. You aren't the only one that needs to change."

"I'm trying! You try getting clothes on with a dog running around and one arm. Ow."

"Do you need help?"

"Um, yeah. Can you give Reggie to Etienne? He's having a conniption in here. I put him in the bathtub. He can run around in there."

"You mean Etianna?" Xavier muttered. "Ow!"

"Etienne, Xav, Etienne! Here, you hold the dog." the younger bodyguard corrected as he passed Reggie, who whom Bowan had delivered, on to Xavier.

After a few minutes of confusion as to how to get the sling back on correctly, Zita emerged from the bathroom in jeans and a hoodie and a good deal more comfortable than when she went in. She took the dog back from Xavier, glaring over at her own, who was sitting on the edge of the bed with a huge, impish grin on his face.

"That wasn't funny. At least not as funny as you thought it was."

Etienne burst out laughing and Xavier replied instead. "Apparently, your reaction was."

"I know. I heard your joke. Don't let up on him."

"Hey!"

"Shut up, Tienne." Xavier said, shoving him playfully on the shoulder.

In seconds, a small fight had ensued, with Zita reffing and Reggie trying vainly to make sense of the sudden chaos and wondering if he should have played it safe and stayed with Bowan in the bathroom.

This was the scene that greeted said woman when she exited the bathroom. "Boys!" she reprimanded, "How old are you?"

Muttered answers.

"Both of you! Go to your rooms!" Zita said jokingly, covering – or attempting to – her involvement.

The bodyguards, playing the parts of two fully-chastised five-year-olds, shuffled their feet on the floor. "Yes, moms."

Bowan laughed at their antics. "All right, children, are we ready to go?"

No one answered. The three "children" just grabbed what stuff they had and scrambled for the door. Bowan shook her head as she gave the room one last look-over. "I rest my case."

SVU Squadroom

5:00 P.M.

Munch was beginning to worry about the Plouvins when Bowan poked her head in the door then walked in, followed by Zita and the bodyguards.

John stood and walked over to meet them. He hugged Bowan. "How're you doin'?"

"I'm okay." she replied, nudging her daughter closer to Munch by kicking the backs of Zita's shoes. "And this is my daughter, Zita."

"I'd shake your hand, but a left-handed handshake could be a little awkward." Zita said apologetically.

"Well, I'll just have to settle for a hug, then, I guess." John said in a mock-annoyed tone, embracing her, careful of her injuries.

Yes, Zita thought as he released her, this is the choice for 'Dad.'

A small yip/bark was heard from the large pocket on Zita's hoodie as John stepped back. Startled, John peered at the little brown and black head poking from the pocket. "Sir Reggie, I presume?"

Zita pulled the little dog from the pocket. "Be careful, he's mental – multiple personalities or severe mood swings, I haven't decided which."

"Maybe Huang can tell us." Fin said, joining the group.

"That is freaking adorable!" gasped Casey Novak, who had just returned from chambers behind the Plouvins. Hearing the compliment, the little dog struggled to get to his new admirer. "Can I?" Casey asked, and Zita passed him to her.

"This is Casey Novak, our new ADA." Munch told his guests. "Casey, this is Bowan and Zita Plouvin and their bodyguards, Etienne Dupont and Xavier Cousteau. The puff's Reggie. Bowan, this is my partner, Fin Tutuola, whom Zita and Etienne have already met. My other colleagues, Olivia Benson, her partner, Elliot Stabler, and our captain, Don Cragen are somewhere interrogating a suspect. You'll meet them later."

Introductions were made all around to those available. At the mention of the interrogation, Casey gasped again. "Oh, I have to be there for that! It was nice meeting you!" Casey said, unceremoniously passing Reggie to the nearest person with empty hands, namely Munch, and dashed off as fast as her heels would allow.

"I take it she's really new?" Zita asked Fin, who nodded.

"She got here a week or so ago. Come on, let's go sit down. You four comin'?"

Etienne and Xavier, satisfied that their charges were in safe hands, declined and went to wait in the car. Munch stole Olivia's and Elliot's empty chairs after passing Reggie on to Fin, whom the dog took an instant liking to. Bowan had been right. The dog was cute, but Munch knew he would never hear the end of it if he admitted so.

"So, uh, did you ever get ahold of your man in Interpol?" Fin asked Zita after they were all seated.

"Yes, Etienne smuggled me in my cell this morning with breakfast. He said that he'll see what he can do. It won't be an easy job, since all we have to track Pierre or Bruno are their credit records. When we find out what brick-and-mortar stores either of them visit in America, we'll be able to find out roughly where they're hiding or what direction they're heading in if they're on the run."

"So they're tracking their spending habits? How is that gonna lead us to them?" Munch asked.

"When we find out where they shop in the US offline on a routine basis, they can send men in to track them back to their hideout."

"Who's they?"

"Depends on who winds up involved. If my squad back home comes in as help, it'll probably be a mixture of you and them. My captain will know about all this eventually; I wouldn't be surprised if he sent at least a few people."

"If not come himself." Bowan added.

"Why wouldn't they just collar him when they found him?" Fin asked, "Why wait until they get home?"

"Well, because Pierre's political standing. We'd need an extraditionary warrant to arrest him. If they see Bruno, they could collar him on sight, but we'd never squeeze Pierre's location out of him. He'd go to prison for life before giving the man who erased his record so he could travel freely up. Of course, this is all providing that they're in the country. If they went back to France, it's beyond your jurisdiction and into mine and my squad's, not that Antione would let me actually work this case."

"And it's a good thing, too, young lady. If your captain didn't stop you, I would." Bowan said firmly.

Munch sighed. "There's nothing you remember about the chateau? No landmarks along the way? I have a feeling that Cragen would rather this be a NYPD operation only, rather than pull in French police forces. Nothing personal, Zita."

Bowan and Zita shook their heads in reply. "No, and no offence taken." Zita answered. "I can see his point. The French police wouldn't want American police in on their investigations, either. It's a territory thing."

"Well, if there's nothing else you can tell us," Fin said, pulling out two yellow legal pads, "we're gonna need to get official statements from both of you about last night."

The Plouvins took the notepads and pens the detectives gave them. "Does it matter if it's messy? I'm right handed." Zita asked, looking up at Fin.

"Here, I'll write it for you. Tell me what to write . . ."

Fin wished he had walked to work that morning when he saw Munch's ride home. Living in New York City, he had heard about the new Cadillac Escalade, but had never been inside one. They were patently ridiculous on the streets of Manhattan, but, he supposed, the Plouvin bodyguards wanted their charges as insulated from the public as possible, especially after the events of the night before. He looked down at his old Ford. It was not a bad car and it had served him well over the last ten years, but it was beginning to show its age.

He watched the black SUV pull away, wishing he was inside, and not just because the plush interior he had heard so much about. Fin had managed to become quickly attached to the Plouvin girl. He had blown his chance to be a good father to his son and felt that Zita might be his second chance to prove to himself that he could be a good parent, albeit a surrogate one, as she was already like a daughter to him. It scared him in a way, how quickly he had become so . . . like this. Not even a full day. Of course, he was not really surprised. Zita was a good daughter. Munch had told him more about what Bowan had told him about Zita the night before. She had risked a lot, protecting her mother like that. She did not break down, either. Most rape victims were almost crazy afterwards. Zita, and Bowan, really, had managed to remain calm about it, even cracking jokes from time to time. It almost made his job easy.

En Route to John Munch's Apartment

"So what unit do you work for, Zita?" Munch asked as Xavier navigated the massive vehicle through the New York traffic.

"What do you mean?" she asked, trying to keep Reggie from falling from her lap in his excitement to be in a moving car.

"Like, do you work in homicide, theft, special victims, vice, narcotics . . .?"

"The French police don't have units like that. There's detectives who are better with different crimes than others, but we work on everything."

"So what you saw on the evidence boards at my precinct were nothing new?" he asked, a large weight falling from his shoulders. He should have thought to move those boards before they came in.

"No, I'm usually the one who catches cases like those. You can only guess why. My partner hates it."

John's surprise at her nonchalance did not show on his face. Fin had been right. She seemed totally unfazed by what had happened to her – simply angry that it had happened to her mother, too, and happy that something was finally being done about it. At least she was making it easy for them. No matter how little he admitted it, his heart broke every time he saw a victim, especially a child, cry. Zita was hardly a child anymore, not with her maturity level and police badge and sidearm he assumed were hidden somewhere on her person, but she was hardly an adult yet.

This case stung worse than the others, he realized. Perhaps it had something to do with what Bowan had said the night before, that thing about Zita possibly being his. He had thought about that a lot while he was cleaning. Fin talked about how kids could be, mentioning how John should be grateful for having not replicated and how it would be an Armageddon-causing tragedy if he had. Regardless of the perils his partner spoke of, John had always wanted children. The only problem had been that he had either found a woman who wanted anything but children or a woman who left him too soon. Perhaps Zita could prove Fin wrong – be his chance for fatherhood. No, John thought, there's too many variables. Get your hopes up and they'll break your heart.

Of course, neither Zita nor John would have guessed that their thoughts were yet another thing they had in common.

She looked nothing like him, but Zita could not help but almost believe that he was her father. He seemed to have welcomed her into his life immediately. And he was so natural about it, like she had always been there as his daughter and had just been away at college or something. He had hugged her. That was something new for Zita. Sure her friends hugged her, her friends' families hugged her, her mother hugged her, even Etienne and Xavier hugged her when she was having a particularly bad day, but Pierre, her permanent father figure, had never hugged her or offered any affectionate contact. Normally, Zita did not appreciate much touching, mainly due to the physical contact she faced from Pierre, which made living in mainland Europe rather uncomfortable, considering the lack of personal space and the greeting customs the culture provided. But with John, it just felt right, albeit a little bony.

But she could not allow herself to think about that stuff. The divorce papers were signed, but Bowan did not have a job and did not have as much money as Pierre. There was still a possibility, if the ADA – Casey, John had called her? – could not put Pierre away, that he would get custody, no matter what he had been accused of.

Nope, she told herself, just don't think about that stuff.

But her mind would not let go of the memory of the way it felt when John hugged her and how much she wanted him as a father.

John Munch's Apartment

"Well, here we are." John said as Etienne and Xavier filed past him into the apartment with the Plouvin's bags, "Your rooms are down that little hallway, there."

John held the door as Bowan and Zita stepped in. The apartment was impressively clean for a bachelor, especially one as busy as he was. The detective kicked a can of dusting spray behind a bookcase. No use revealing his true house-keeping habits just yet.

John brought his guests back to their rooms and left them to settle in while he went to get his things organized in his living room.

Zita set Reggie down on the floor and he dashed about the room aimlessly, his nose to the ground, inspecting his new domain. It was a far cry from his plush accommodations in Paris, but he had faith that Zita would fix it. She always did.

The fixer in question was in the middle of unpacking her suitcase when her phone rang. Her mouth split into a grin. The British National Anthem. Only one person on her contact list had that caller ID.

"Talk to me Justin."

The voice that answered spoke in a clipped British accent and belonged to one Justin Mianovich, the son of Samuel Mianovich, the head of Interpol's undercover division. He was the department's teen techie genius and very close friend of Zita Plouvin.

"We got 'im, Zi. Well, we got his purchase location, at least."

"Fill me in."

"Gas station off of highway 90 near Rome, New York. Paid with a Visa."

"Getting lazy already, is he? Do we have a GPS location?"

"Of course we don't, moron! We are a completely useless and inefficient institution! You should know that by now! How long have you been with us?" Justin blurted.

"Two years and can you e-mail me that location? I'm sure the NYPD would find it useful."

Zita could almost see him rolling his eyes at his computer screens, which provided the vast majority of the light in his lab. "Already did. And I'll be sending all further locations as well, not that you'll show any appreciation or anything." he snorted irately, "I could probably find a way to track the card itself, whether it was used or not, if this bureaucracy would give me a decent budget." he grumbled.

Zita smiled. Justin played the part of the unappreciated, underpaid, underfunded, dateless genius better than any A-list actor ever could. "And I'd up your budget if I could, but I'm afraid I have little standing in Interpol's financial affairs. Your dad knows about this little operation, right?"

"Yeah, I told him. Don't worry, he won't talk to the press."

The Mianovich men were two of the few who knew of Bowan and Zita's situation and the events leading up to it. At first, Justin had been outraged, wanting to go and take Bruno and Pierre out on his own, but the most muscle-building exercise his body saw in a day was walking to his lab at Interpol and tapping at a computer keyboard, so Zita had to convince him to keep his peace and Samuel not to tell someone about what had been going on at the Plouvins. It would only cause trouble and revenge only grew in sweetness while one waited for it.

"So how're you holding up? Out of the hospital yet, are you?"

"Yeah. An old friend of my mom's is letting us live with him until we find a place."

"Do you like 'im?"

"Yeah, turns out, he's a detective in the Special Victims Unit in Manhattan, so it's a stroke of luck for us."

"But? There's something else about him you're holding back – I can hear it in your voice. Is he an ex-con hiding his identity like that one guy who almost became your partner a year ago? I can look him up for you!"

"No, no, nothing like that! Did I mention he was a cop? They don't have records."

"Then what?"

"He hugged me, Just. And I wasn't uncomfortable about it. It was just natural. That doesn't happen with me. Not without a guy building at least four months' worth of trust first. I had only caught a glimpse of John once before and I hadn't actually met him until this afternoon when he hugged me."

"You didn't put your hand out? Normally you go for the handshake first. You're in America now, handshakes are commonplace there. You're in your greetings comfort zone."

"I told you, I broke my right arm. It's in a sling, Einstein. I said that shaking hands with my left hand could be a little awkward and he said he'd just have to do with a hug. Normally I'd hit a guy for that, but it's like I known him all my life. It's bizarre, but not in a bad way."

"An old friend of your mom's? Does this mean –"

"They were partners when my mom was in homicide in Baltimore, and, yes, they dated, so, yes, it's possible, but don't talk about it. The last thing I need is for me to get my hopes up. I don't look anything like John, but I don't look anything like Pierre, either, so it's up in the air. I don't think John's ready for a paternity test right now, anyway. As of, like, several years ago, he's been a bachelor with no kids. He's in his sixties; I don't want him having a heart attack."

"Whoa! Your mom's only forty!"

"Don't start with me. Age has nothing to do with it.

Justin decided to change the subject. Girls could be so sensitive. "So how's New York? Big and loud?"

"Yeah, and the drivers are better here than in Paris."

"That shouldn't surprise you. You French drivers are nuts!" Justin said, "Hold on, my dad's here."

"Say hi for me."

Muffled conversation ensued on the Mianovich side for several seconds before Justin got back on the line. "My dad says that if we're not talking about the case anymore that I have to get back to work. Physics III homework."

"Like that's so hard for you. You have an IQ of, like, two hundred."

"I have to show all my work, so it takes forever." Justin said, sighing. "I'll call you again soon. Can you live without me until then?"

"With therapy, I might be able to manage. Remember, keep me updated. My phones always on, so if there's something urgent, call me. The police will need as much help on this as possible. Make sure the updates are in a form that I can just forward to the detectives."

"All right then. Later."

"Later."

Zita snapped her phone shut and pulled out her laptop. Fin had given her his work e-mail address and she had a feeling he was probably still there.

Revenge was sweet and at this rate, it would probably be so for quite a while.

Or would it?

"Voulez-vous lui donner une crise cardiaque?"

Do you want to give her a heart attack?