Simply put, Stella was having a bad hair day. As luck would have it, the New York snow forecasted for the night turned out to be more of a sleet-rain mixture that sent a chill down her spine and a kink or two in her curls. It had been one of those winters, where the bone chilling cold made her keenly aware of every bump and bruise her body had withstood over the years. Her head hurt, her entire being ached, and she longed for nothing more than to curl up in bed and hibernate like a bear until spring.
Having someone there to keep her heart from freezing would be an added bonus.
Winter breeds seasonal depression. They go hand in hand, much like peanut butter and jam. And although her heart wouldn't completely trust another man in her life just yet, part of her longed to simply be held again, bringing some warmth back inside.
There weren't many times where she found herself actually wishing she had a partner; she had always been so fiercely independent to bother wasting time with silly, childish thoughts like that. Even so, as the frigid season reared its ugly head in full glory, she found herself thinking that it would have been nice to have someone around after the day she'd had... if for nothing else than to meet the cable guy.
A busted water heater, fuzzy television, and a dead battery in her department issue vehicle had just been the start to this particularly wonderful New York December day. And to think, in all reality, her evening shift was just beginning. The rain, she mused, was just icing on this precariously disastrous cake.
Perhaps it was the fact that there had been no trace of a sun's ray for a week now. It had to be. She inwardly despised this aspect of winter.
Pulling up to her destination, she prayed to whatever Greek God would hear her, please let the old cliché indeed be true. She couldn't take more than a triplet of bad luck right now, and if that was in store at this particular scene, it would likely push her far enough over an edge to scream, loudly, up at the sky.
To hell with hibernation, she mused. At this point, she'd settle for torpor.
Squelching any urge to completely lose her sanity in front of some of NYPD's finest, and making a mental note to hit a tanning booth for some much needed vitamin D, she quickly gathered her toolkit and made her way toward the crime scene. The flurry of activity exponentially intensified as she neared the scene, red and blue lights capturing her features in a rare light as day began its slow descent into night.
"Car bomb, pretty destructive," Angell motioned, "and the rain isn't helping us much. I've got men on that issue as we speak."
Several cadets were frantically trying to put together the large white tent that would eventually serve to shelter the scene from the elements while they worked into the night. Funny, Stella mused inwardly, the tent itself looked more apropos for a wedding than a funeral. As she continued her scan of the scene, gaining her bearings, she couldn't help but notice the fragments of the car's windshield and windows that littered the street, as the rain washed a dirty, diluted river of debris in between the larger shards of glass.
Sheldon walked up between the two detectives, filling in his superior that he hadn't yet had a chance to locate the detonation device, nor did he find any tangible evidence of a victim upon a cursory overview. However, from the pattern of explosion, it looked as though the backseat or the trunk was the target of the blast. Why blow up a car if there wasn't anything in it? Something wasn't right.
"Hey Hawkes, have you ever had one of those days, where everything that can go wrong..."
"Will." He finished for her, and gathering a pretty good idea of where she was going with the thought, he added, "Yeah. So Murphy, is that your way of asking me to tackle my way through the glass on the road?"
Stella laughed, Sheldon knew her well. Her mood lifted at the thought of not being completely isolated. She always had the unwavering camaraderie of her fellow analysts. Perhaps she really didn't need to hibernate the winter away after all.
With Hawkes tackling the debris, looking for traces of the explosive, she chose the relative safety of what was left of the skeletonized older model Chevrolet sedan. Deciding to start with what had presumably been the target of the bomb, her eye caught a funny stain on a remnant piece of carpeting that had lined the trunk and managed somehow to survive the blast. Using the traditionally more sensitive phenophthalein presumptive test for blood, the reagent reacted with traces of ferric iron within the stain, causing her swab to turn pink.
"Hawkes," she yelled over the patter of the rain on the now erect tent's roof, "you might want to re-think that victimless scenario." He looked back at her with a furrowed brow, indicating complete and utter confusion. After all, there wasn't a body in sight. Lifting up the positive test result, she continued simply, "We have blood, unless of course someone dumped some horseradish peroxidase in the trunk just to frustrate me."
"My bet's on the former," he yelled back, smiling at her find, "how many people actually drink horseradish juice anyway?" She laughed at his rhetorical inquiry, turning her attention back to work.
But before she could investigate further, her cell phone began an incessant jingle. Making a mental note to change the hideous tone later on, she quickly transferred the evidence to one hand while using the other to deftly flip open the phone.
Surprised to hear from her boss on his day off, she immediately made a quip about the equivalent nature of sleep deprivation and a drunken stupor. The register in his voice, however, lead her to believe something had unsettled him. She quickly switched gears into sincerity, listening to his vague account of a girl at the hospital in need of being processed ASAP. He had disregarded her inquiry for more details on the case, and she didn't quite understand the urgency in his voice, but she hadn't the heart to give him hell about it now.
Inwardly groaning at researchers across America for having yet to come up with a plausible way to teleport, she responded apologetically to Mac's plea for a seemingly covert op. Curious as it all seemed; she chose not to push for a better explanation, yet.
"Mac, I'm sorry, I am up to my ears in a car bombing at the other end of town, and can't be there for at least another several hours. But a certain country bumpkin with an eye for detail owes me a favor..."
She felt a slight twinge of guilt at pushing the matter off to another detective, especially when Mac seemed to be seeking her out specifically. She chose not to dwell too much on it though, turning her attention back to the blood stain in the car.
After all, even Wonder Woman couldn't be in two places at once.
On the other side of the city, Mac inwardly sighed. A deep seated churning in the pit of his stomach told him to play this particular case very, very close to the vest. Any news of an official investigation would leak to the press and, inevitably to those who bore that particular cross on their arm. No, it was best to keep that particular penciled detail from seeing the light of day until he got a handle on the true severity of the situation. At least until he could have a whole hearted chat with the young lady himself. Unneeded as the cloud of secrecy may turn out to be, something told him to listen to his gut. After all, his instincts were nothing less than finely tuned after years on the force.
The way he had figured things, he could get away with telling Stella upfront that she wouldn't get the whole story right out of the gate. Sure, Stella would hate him for a minute, even protest, offended that Mac, her boss and friend didn't trust her with sensitive information. But he'd apologize for his authority, ultimately putting his foot down, and Stella would drop it there. From years of experience, she had grown to understand the motives behind his actions, even if from time to time they were brash or impulsive. He shuddered at the fleeting memory of Clay Dobson and the way he had handled the situation.
His thoughts quickly back on Stella, he could see the scene playing out in his mind's eye. She'd know that he had a reason for remaining covert, but he could almost hear the tone in her voice when she would warn him that it had better be a damn good one. Hell, if he had asked her sincerely enough, she'd probably help him keep things under wraps without officially knowing why. Most importantly, when it was all said and done, Stella would forgive him first and ask questions later.
Lindsay, on the other hand, would yield to this particular aspect of his authority like a bull yields to a red flag, pushing for further understanding, and butting heads as she did so. She wouldn't take well to a vague explanation, if only because she had been so skilled at dishing them out. To her defense, hers had been a personal issue, but when it affected her work, it became a professional one. To add a little salt to the wound, forgiveness for keeping the young detective out of the entire loop would be harder to come by. At least she had a wicked eye for the minutest of details.
Mac sighed again, less despondent this time. At the end of the day, he had complete faith in each and every member of his team. He simply hoped they would keep that confidence in him.
Turning to Don in a hushed tone, he urged, "Tell me everything you can remember about that day. The raid, everything. From your perspective. Start at the beginning."
Note: Many thanks for the reviews! I had forgotten how much fun this was! Updates may be sporadic as my semester is already in full swing, but I urge you to stick along for the ride, for I have grand plans. I'm not a messy writer, so trust me when I ask for your patience. Everything will come together, I promise. I simply need to lay the framework first. Thanks again! It's always nice to know your work is appreciated.