Title: Reunion

Author: Fins-Best-Friend

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

A/N: All right, does anyone still want to read this? I mean, out of 727 hits, I have gotten 4 reviews. Does this mean that it's so bad that no one has anything worthwhile to say or what? If there's no point in continuing, please tell me.

Chapter 5

Thursday, December 21, 2003

The past almost-two months flew past. Zita and Bowan had become well-entrenched in their new life in New York, with Zita spending most of her time looking over the evidence of cases the NYPD has deemed cold. It had been a long-practiced hobby of hers and she had managed to solve five such cases since her arrival. John and Bowan had grown very close and they could often be seen leaving the station together, hand-in-hand – early. John had never been one to leave before, at least, 8 P.M. unless he was very sick or had to visit someone in the hospital. He looked healthier, too, even happy from time to time. Not facade happy, but genuinely in a better mood. Fin and Zita had a precinct bet going regarding how long it was going to be until a ring appeared on Bowan's finger. Life seemed to be looking up.

Justin had been updating Zita and the detectives almost daily on the spending habits of Bruno and Pierre. The two appeared to be getting lax in their efforts to remain untraceable, as Justin never tired of crowing about over the phone.

That was the good news.

The bad news was that no one, including a technological genius, noticed was that the purchases were getting closer to Manhattan.

Zita and Bowan had found the gold at the end of the rainbow. They had taken their time in searching for a house, as Bowan and John had been getting along so well under one roof, but it was obvious that sleeping on the couch for almost two months was probably not the best thing for a man well over the wrong side of fifty to be doing. So Bowan called a realtor and within a week, Bowan and Zita had closed on a townhouse in Queens. All that was left to do was call the employees at the Plouvin estate and ask them to ship the runaways the things they had neglected to bring with them, pack up the stuff they did bring, and break the news to John.

At the present, boxes from France were beginning to fill the lower rooms of the townhouse and Bowan was beginning to receive bills from furniture companies. She was putting off telling John. In the weeks that she had been staying with him, they had ditched the idea of taking it slow, reasoning that things tended to happen quickly when two forty-plus-year-olds felt like teenagers again.

Staring off into space over her coffee cup, Bowan smiled at the memory of a few nights before. Zita had been at the precinct, looking over a case with Fin, off-the-record, of course and Etienne, confident that no one would try to kidnap, assassinate, etc. her in a police station, left her there to go on the date that she had finally convinced him to go on, saying that he would be back to take her and Fin home afterwards. When Zita had arrived home that night around eleven, she found her mother and John on the couch in front of a movie that neither were paying any attention to, because they were too busy making out like teenagers in a movie theater. To her credit, the real teenager had taken it remarkably well, simply covering Etienne's eyes, as he was halfway through the door, and leading him back out, saying something about needing to take Reggie for a walk. An awkward silence had ensued when Zita got back, but she broke it when she fell into a massive laughing fit at the expressions on the adults' faces.

Zita and John had also bonded despite her similarity to an FBI agent. Well, bonded was slight misnomer. They were joined at the hip and she and Fin were best friends. It was hardly uncommon to see the three of them involved in some sort of discussion/debate over a newspaper article. Somehow, Zita always won, which was the only thing that got John and Fin to get back to their work, which, in turn, further endeared her to the hearts of the other detectives and Cragen, who had already assumed position of grandparent. Even Casey liked her, especially after she heard that Zita had graduated from Harvard three years after starting online courses ("Finally! Another legal-minded constant in the SVU squadroom!"). In fact, there were very few people who were indifferent or less as to the SVU's new junior golden girl, or her dog, whom, more often than not, stowed away in her backpack, much to the annoyance of the desk sergeant, who did not like small dogs.

Even John, the self-proclaimed dog repellent, had warmed up to the little wad of hair. Perhaps it had something to do with Reggie's comical habit of getting into the clean laundry and, finding that socks tended to stick to him thanks to static electricity, bringing John his clean, yet slightly haired, socks among other small pieces of laundry – not to say that he did not try for larger. It was only a week before that John had caught him with a twin-sized fitted sheet folded around his head as the dog dashed across the kitchen floor to run into the wall on the other side of the room. Reggie had not tried for anything larger than a t-shirt after that. But the most heart-warming moment between John and the yorkie had occurred just the night before, when Zita took a picture with her cell phone of the two of them on the couch with Reggie snuggled up under the man's chin, both fast asleep. Bowan could hear Fin laughing when he called Zita back after she sent him the picture. Fortunately for John, he had promised not to use the picture for blackmail, but no way would he keep the picture completely to himself. It appeared that Sir Reginald III was there to stay.

SVU Squadroom

2:00 P.M.

Zita was sitting at John's desk while he was out with Fin, Olivia, and Elliot canvassing the neighborhood of a girl around fourteen years of age found raped and murdered in a school's janitor closet. Luc Brenoille, Zita's partner in the Paris police department, had special-shipped her the case file for an investigation they had been in the middle of when she left so she could work on it. The case was not a pretty one. A double rape-homicide and a kidnaping. Two best friends at an unsupervised sleep-over and a missing little sister, age six. Zita shivered and shook her head. That was when the abuse had actually begun for her. Pierre did not even know about it. Just Bruno. NO! she told herself, This is the case that matters, not your own stupid issues! That was eleven years ago! But a voice she had grown accustomed to ignoring still whispered unheeded, But it ended only three months ago and you haven't let it heal.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the return of the four NYPD detectives from their wintry jaunt around town. They were all arguing about something John had probably brought up.

"Just because on one's ever seen them doesn't mean they don't exist. We only use about ten percent of our brains – who knows what humans could pick up on if we used the other ninety percent?"

Yup. Definitely John.

"Look, aliens did not kidnap Elvis, nor is the government, FBI, CIA, or the military hiding the general public from the fact that UFOs exist – assuming that they do, in fact, exist." Elliot was saying as he stepped over to the coffee maker to find that the coffee was either old or gone, which hardly improved his mood. He began cursing and muttering under his breath as he prepared a new pot.

Zita's eyes never left her computer screen. "Etienne's bringing Starbucks if you want to wait a few minutes, Elliot."

The detective dropped the filters he was wrestling with, leaving them for someone else to straighten out. "Thanks."

Zita nodded in acknowledgment as John continued the debate.

"I never said anything about the military, Elliot. They're in on this, too?"

Fin snorted from his spot at his desk across from where Zita had entrenched herself. She looked up at him. "Has anyone around here considered cancelling his National Enquirer subscription?"

"Tried and failed, my dear, tried and failed." John answered for him.

Zita looked up. John was giving her the over-the-rims look.

"Yes?"

"That would be my chair."

Zita attempted a hurt look. "You would kick the invalid out of a chair? Where are your manners, sir?" she exclaimed, beginning to gather her things together for a speedy transference.

"I'm not as young as I used to be, I'm cold and I'm grumpy because of it and you got your cast off yesterday – you're hardly an invalid – so don't make me tip you out of this chair." John replied, grabbing the back of the chair and tipping it sharply forward a few inches, causing her to drop the files she was picking up and grab hold of the chair arms.

"No! I'm getting up! Don't tip me!"

Zita got up hurriedly and retreated to a chair sitting beside the desk to the sounds of the squad's laughter.

"What'd I miss?"

They looked up as Etienne arrived with the coffee. "Nothin'." Zita answered, trying to maintain a poker face.

"Tell me later!" the bodyguard whispered to the detectives as he passed out the drinks.

"I heard that!"

"Glad you're not deaf." he replied, setting a latte in front of her.

Olivia picked up a picture from where it had fallen. It portrayed a bloody crime scene, complete with bloody sheets which wrapped, presumably, two bloody bodies. After a moment's hard staring, Olivia passed the photo to John. "This isn't one of ours, is it? I don't recognize the room."

Zita saw the picture over John's shoulder. She pulled it gently from his hands and slipped it back in her file folder. "That's mine, actually."

The detectives looked at her strangely. "What?" she asked defensively, "You have your cases, I have mine. Any luck in your canvassing?"

Elliot shook his head. "No one knew her. At least they say they didn't."

"And he isn't in any databases?"

Fin shook his head. "No records of her's or her attacker's DNA in our system."

"I suppose it would be too easy if there was a similar missing person's report."

Nods and "uh-huh"s all around.

"Hmmm. Sticky."

Olivia decided to change the subject. "So, Zita, any luck with the house-hunting?" she asked, sitting on the edge of John's desk.

"We're looking at one." Zita lied. Bowan had wanted to break the news to John herself. "'T's in Queens."

"Ah! I win!" Elliot said victoriously, reaching out and taking a ten dollar bill from Olivia.

"Apartment?" Fin asked.

Zita shook her head. "Townhouse."

"Is it nice?"

"That's one of the reasons we're seriously considering it. We've put in a bid, but nothing's set in stone." She really hated this lying thing. She was almost grateful when Etienne's phone rang and he tapped her on the shoulder.

"You have physical therapy. We'll probably be late, even if we leave now, so pack it up, let's go."

Nello Italian Restaurant

696 Madison Avenue

Upper East Side

7:00 P.M.

"Zita said something about you two looking at a place in Queens."

John and Bowan were out on yet another date – it was the fourth one that week and it was only Thursday. But this once-a-day thing had become very commonplace during the past two weeks. So much for taking things very slow.

"Yeah, we really found one around December first and we've been moving in ever since. I told Zita not to say anything about it because I was waiting to tell you myself. I was waiting until we got closer to being ready to move in to tell you."

"So you like it. OK part of the neighborhood?"

Bowan nodded. "I was surprised it was still on the market."

"'S good." John replied, nodding back, trying to hide his disappointment behind his wineglass. He was hardly ready for his new family to leave.

Bowan saw right through it. "No it's not. Not to you. What is it?"

That brought his focus from his wine back to her. She had that look on her face. The one he had always met emotionally with a mixture of love and hatred. She knew what he was thinking and she had not intention of hiding it.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Bowan, I . . . I – "

Bowan reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "John? You don't want us to move, do you?"

John had not noticed just how blue her eyes were in almost three seconds. "No. I lost you once and I can't tell you what it's been like for me getting you back – both of you. I already don't spend enough time with you, and with you living on your own, I'll see you even less. I see Zita almost all day almost every day. I miss you when you're not with me." he said, flipping his hand over so he could hold hers.

"What are we going to do about you on the couch? I'm not going to be a hypocrite to the daughter I've taught willing abstinence to since age ten."

John chuckled at that. "I'll look for a futon." he said hurriedly, for the real reason for the evening was burning a hole in his pocket. "Bowan, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

The detective reached into his pocket. "I've been waiting a long time to ask this." he stalled – he was having difficulty getting the reason out of his pocket. "I'd kneel, but I'm a little too far across the fifty-year-line." he said, opening the little black velvet box.

The diamonds set in the silver glimmered brightly in the light of the restaurant's chandelier, but, to John, her smile outdid the jewels.

"You've waited all this time?" It was all she could think of to say.

"Is that a yes or a no?"

Bowan could hardly whisper as she nodded. "Yes, John, that's a yes!"

John Munch's Apartment

8:30 P.M.

Bowan and John were in the middle of a particularly spectacular kiss when John's cell phone rang. At first they tried to ignore it, but after the fifth ring, Bowan broke the kiss. "You'd better get that."

Grumpy about the interruption, John fumbled around in his pocket and produced the ringing phone.

"Fin, you have lousy timing."

Fin was hardly in the mood. "Too bad. Listen, you need to get back to the precinct."

"This can't wait?"

"I wouldn't be callin' you now if it could."

"And you have to have my help?"

"Munch. Get your bony butt down here!"

John sighed gustily. "All right. Be there in ten." He shut the phone, turning back to his new fiancé. "I'm sorry, Bowan, I've gotta go back to the station house. Fin says it can't wait."

"It's all right, John. Xavier's here. I understand – remember, I was a detective once, too. Just be careful, okay?"

John kissed her forehead. "I'll try. Hopefully, I'll be home soon. Love you."

"Love you, too."

SVU Squadroom

8:48 P.M.

Zita and Etienne had spent the majority of the day at the precinct, with Etienne sitting out of the way, his nose immersed in a copy of Guns & Ammo, and Zita working on her case at her spot at the end of John's and Fin's desks or actually at John's desk when he was not sitting in it himself, helping herself to the use of his computer, since her's was having difficulty charging back at John's apartment. Besides a few small, fruitless leads on some minor side cases, the day had been very slow for the 1-6. At least until about twenty minutes before, when Zita's phone had rung, waking Fin from his half-doze.

"What's goin' on, Justin?"

"Zita, he's in the city. And not just to go to a show. He wouldn't take that kind of risk. Maybe with credit cards, but not with this."

"Bruno's here?"

"He just made a purchase at a drug store on Thirty-fifth."

"Hold on, let me put you on speaker . . . All right, now say again."

Fin, Cragen, Olivia, and Elliot leaned in to hear Zita's informant as he repeated the message.

Fin looked grimly across his desk at Zita, addressing Justin. "Is there any chance that he would know where Zita and Bowan are staying?"

"Anything's possible, Detective, so, definitely. Not a huge chance, but he's not stupid. He'll probably check the precinct first after the hotel room, so if anyone's in there –"

"They're empty. Etienne's here with me and Xavier's with mom at the apartment unless she and John aren't back yet."

"What's the chance that Bruno or Pierre know where that apartment is?" Justin asked, worried.

"Anything's possible." she re-quoted him, "A good eighty-five percent, 'cause I know Bruno and Pierre. At any rate, I doubt Xavier can't stop them."

"I'll call John." Fin said, whipping out his cell phone and punching in a number on his speed dial.

"I'll get a stake-out set up at his targets." Cragen said, "Zita, you shouldn't be here, just in case they do come here. All they'd have to do is open a phone book for an address, but John's not in the phonebook. You and Etienne head back to the apartment with your mother. Two bodyguards together are better than one. Benson, Stabler, you head over to the Ritz now. Fin, wait here for John then head to the Ritz – it's the biggest target. Zita, make sure when you get back to the apartment that all doors and windows are locked and all the lights are out."

"Uh, hello? Down here in the phone!"

The detectives halted their activities to stare at Zita's cell phone.

"Make it quick, Justin." Cragen barked.

"We have an agent in Manhattan investigating an American drug trafficer moving drugs into Europe. We caught the guy this morning. About an hour later, Bruno made a purchase just outside the city. We faxed our agent his picture and sent him to talk to the store manager. Manager said Bruno drove off in a European model black sedan with a French license plate. Didn't get the number, but a French plate is pretty easy to spot amid a bunch of American ones. You may meet up with him if he's still in the States."

"We'll take that into account, thanks." Elliot said.

"Anytime. If I get any updates, I'll call. Good luck, guys."

"Thanks, Just."

Zita ended the call and grabbed her backpack, which Reggie had been peacefully sleeping on.

"Let's go." Etienne said, "Car's out front."

"Let's move, people!" Cragen called.

Ally by John Munch's Apartment

8:56 P.M.

"Vous êtes sûr personne ne sait que vous êtes ici?" (You're sure no one know's you're here?)

"Oui, monsieur. J'ai laissé la voiture à l'hôtel. Tous les détectives se dirigeraient là-bas." (Yes, sir. I left the car at the hotel. All the detectives would be heading over there.)

"Et vous êtes positif que le détective qu'ils restent avec soit parti?" (And you're positive that the detective they're staying with has left?)

"Je l'ai vu partir avec mes propres deux yeux." (I saw him leave with my own two eyes.)

"Bon. Allez." (Good. Go.)

An evil smile spread across Bruno's face. Pierre did not have to tell him twice.

Outside the Ritz Hotel

8:58 P.M.

Elliot and Olivia approached the black sedan carefully. A man was standing, examining the car much closer than the average admirer. The watched as he pulled something small and black from his coat pocket and place it on the inside of the back bumper, where no one would be likely to check for anything. He was an inconspicuous-looking man, but his activities seemed a little more questionable.

The detectives took their places behind him an Olivia pulled out her badge. "Whatcha doin' there?"

When the man turned and looked at them, Elliot grabbed his arms and cuffed him. "Bruno Arnoulle, you are under arrest for multiple rapes in the first –"

"Wait, wait, wait, wait! You think I'm Arnoulle? Release my hands now!" the man said with a mix of worry and indignance.

"And why should we do that, Arnoulle?" Elliot asked, tightening the cuffs.

"If you want Interpol and your IAB on your backs, by all means, take me in." he whispered harshly.

Elliot looked over at Olivia, who was the first to respond. "You're Interpol?" she asked under her breath.

"My badge is in the lining of my coat's left breast pocket. Release my hands before you make a scene."

Elliot uncuffed the Interpol agent and watched as he pulled his badge from his pocket, handing it to Elliot.

"Special Agent Kent Vega. Interpol." Elliot read, then looked up at the tall, dark-skinned man. "What were you doing to the car?"

Vega looked back and forth between the detectives. "This is completely off the record. No one except you two know about this." whispered the agent.

The detectives knew that they could lose their jobs and jeopardize any Interpol investigations if they said anything. They nodded in understanding.

"I'm only telling you this," he hissed, "because you're probably working on Bowan and Zita's case and Zita Plouvin happens to be my partner and a very good friend of mine. It's a GPS device. Now, you've never seen me before."

And with that, he retrieved his badge from the detectives and melted back into the crowd.

"I had a feeling that Interpol would be involved in this eventually." John said bitterly. He not only disliked the vast majority of bureaucratic institutions, but also knew what defense and higher-echelon police agencies tended to do – namely, take over investigations ordinary detectives had been immersed in for months.

"There's no time for your moaning, Munch." Cragen said, "I've got men in their positions around the precinct and a block away from your apartment in all directions. Now let's get in our positions."

Outside John Munch's Apartment

8:58 P.M.

Bruno had served in the French army for several years before going into the personal protections business, and his military training and physic still remained. By this time, he had already scaled the outer wall of the building and sat, crouching beneath a window on the fire escape, unnoticed entirely by those on the nearby street. He held his gun, cocked, knowing full-well the training Xavier had gone through. Bruno had never gone to a bodyguard academy – his military training had been enough for Pierre.

From what he could see, Bowan was in the bedroom across the hall, which he could see through the open door of the room he was looking into. Xavier would be somewhere else in the apartment, but he could not see anything besides the two bedrooms from that window, and he was not about to risk going in from the front of the building. Not knowing would have to do.

He reaced up and pushed on the window. It was locked. Bruno had not really expected otherwise. Zita was a teenager, but she was not as irresponsible or careless as most of the young people he had come in contact. Also, it was the dead of winter and no one in their right mind would have the window open. The bodyguard unsheathed a thin-bladed army knife and wiggled it in between the window and the frame, jerking upwards and breaking the lock. He was surprised how little effort it had taken. The lock must have dated back to the Nixon Administration.

Bruno crouched back down below the window, just in case someone inside had heard. He waited, ten seconds . . . twenty seconds . . . thirty. No one came running in, waving a gun, to see what the noise was, so, after waiting an additional five seconds, he pushed the window up and climbed stealthily inside.

Hallway Outside John Munch's Apartment

9:15 P.M.

Etienne was used to Zita's irritability. Being sent to a safe house when other detectives were sent out into the field was not something she enjoyed, and, thankfully, it did not happen very often. However, a lot of grumbling was heard from the backseat of the car when it did.

"Zita, this isn't your case. You know that. It's the responsibility of the detectives, and me, incidently, to keep you safe. Every once in a while, you might want to try letting us – just to shake things up a bit and make our jobs easier."

The teenager was still cross about being left out of the action, but had to admit that her bodyguard was right. "Yeah, yeah, I know." she muttered grudgingly, opening the door.

What she saw when she stepped into the apartment brought her hand instantly to her sidearm.

Blood spatters across the far living room wall.

Etienne stepped quickly in front of Zita, pulling his own weapon. "Who's here?" he called out. "Show yourself!"

A moan was heard from out of view behind the couch.

Etienne rushed over to the moan. "Xavier!"

The older bodyguard lay on the floor, doubled up, holding his chest and leg, both of which were bleeding profusely from bullet wounds.

Etienne looked up at Zita as he punched in 9-1-1. "Go find your mother!"

Zita was almost frozen in shock. She could not believe this happened.

"Zita!"

"What?" she asked, her eyes unfocused and her voice distant-sounding.

"Snap out of it! Go find your mother!" he cried, then turned back to Xavier. "Yes, I'd like to report an assault and break-in. . . "

Zita ran from room to room until she got to the scene in her mother's bedroom, where she let out a small scream at the sight.

There was blood everywhere, on the walls, on the carpet, but mostly on the bed, where Bowan's body also lay. Zita felt like she was going to faint looking at her mother, murdered, but she found it impossible to tear her eyes away. She could not breathe, could not hear. She felt like she was lost in an X-Files or Twilight Zone episode – completely detached from reality.

She felt someone shaking her shoulder and heard someone call her name through the haze of shock and looked up to see Etienne, who, after much persuasion from Xavier, agreed to leave him and check on his charge. The bodyguard pulled her into his arms in effort to calm her down and take her eyes away from the carnage, to no avail.

"Zita, Zita, calm down, cara. Go to your room. Call John. Tell him what happened, all right? Let him take care of it."

Still relatively unable to speak, Zita merely nodded and obeyed as Etienne ushered her from the room.

Ritz Hotel Lobby

9:25 P.M.

John stood at a postcard rack in the hotel lobby, willing the large man blocking his view to move. What was it with some people? Did they have nothing better to do than just stand around? He sighed. Apparently not.

He jumped in surprise when his phone rand and he fumbled with the handset as he opened the phone.

"Munch."

"John, he's not at the Ritz!"

It was Zita. She sounded a little more than upset – scared, even. He felt his heart rate speed up. This was not happening.

"Zita, what happened?"

She was now close to hysterics. It seemed that actually having to say it brought the fact home to her. "He shot her, John! He broke in and shot her! Her and Xavier! Th–"

John's heart sank then broke, but he maintained his composure. It was happening. "Zita, Zita, calm down! You're at the apartment?"

She was not almost-screaming now and seemed significantly calmer, but the tremble in her voice was still there and he could still hear her accelerated breathing. "Yes."

"Fin and I'll be there in five minutes. Are you all right?"

"Physically, okay."

"All right, what about Xavier? You said he was shot. How bad?" he asked, struggling to keep his head, motioning to Fin as the older detective made his way toward the exit."

"Etienne's already called for an ambulance. Shot in the chest and leg."

"All right. Stay there, the ambulance will be there any second."

"Okay."

"Are you going to be okay?" he asked, sliding into the driver's seat.

"I think so. The ambulance just got here."

"Good. We're on our way."

John shut his phone as he pulled away from the Ritz. "Fin, call the captain. Tell 'im we were too late."