"Personal issues."
Captain Danny Ross' sonorant voice broke the awkward silence in the small, cluttered office. His icy stare fixated his opposite.
Seemingly stoic Detective Bobby Goren returned it. In reality however he fought the urge to squirm. His heart beat faster, his stomach clenched and his long fingers twitched, wanted to grip the armrests they rested on outwardly relaxed. He'd been confronted with a lot of creeps over the years. They'd done and told him about things that would scare normal people into insanity but even they hadn't put him out so much as this icy stare. He felt like a microbe being scrutinized under the microscope.
"Do these 'personal issues' listen to the name Eames?"
He stiffened at hearing her name. He couldn't suppress it. For a moment life returned to Ross' sphinx-like facial expression when his icy eyes briefly lit up. He nodded as if he just learned something his already knew.
Bobby sighed. Usually he mastered the game, but he was exhausted, overworked and distracted by his clinch with Eames. You enjoy that, don't you?
"Yes… but-"
"You disappoint me, Detective," Ross interrupted him.
"Sir?" Bobby croaked. Ross sounded as if he indeed meant it.
"We may have had our differences and I also don't agree with most of your investigative ways and your tics. But I respect your work and you as a professional. You have a way to get to the goal in a way I never saw it before. However I considered you an adult capable of dealing with his problems. And you tell me that you leave just because of-"
"Sir, this has nothing to do with the Quinn case," Bobby interrupted Ross, harsher than intended. He couldn't believe what just left Ross' mouth.
"It has not?" Ross eyes widened almost unnoticeably and he slightly tilted his head.
"It's… complicated."
Man, did he hate the tremor in his voice or how his left hand shooting up and rubbed the back of his neck. He only noticed it when his hand made contact with his skin. He had no problem with work-related conversation: summarizing the results of interrogations, analyzing and explaining a suspect's behavior or his observations at crime scenes. However he hated situations like this. He hated talking about himself. He felt helpless and exposed then. There was too much he wanted, no, needed to forget. He didn't dare to verbalize it out of fear to go totally insane then-
Bobby wasn't so opinionated, presumptuous or paranoid to believe that Ross would actually discriminate against him or really punish him, not so close to the finish line what in his case meant getting rid of his biggest trouble shooter.
On the other hand however Ross was a careerist. He hadn't earned the prestigious position at Major Case because he was so nice and understanding but strict and unyielding. He strictly ruled the place, didn't like individualism or someone's own initiative. Additionally he had connections to all planes of the department and knew how to use them to his advantage. He certainly wouldn't tolerate what he'd tell him because it would endanger not only the squad's but also his reputation when he kept a detective whose emotions would pose a danger to his objectivity and distance and therefore his ability to work.
But was that still valid? What Ross just said made him doubt. He wouldn't have expected such human sentiments behind the cool façade.
The truth was that he just couldn't read and predict Ross like he could most other people. It was in the tiniest eye movements or twitches in the facial muscles or limps or body posture that told him if someone lied, hid something or told him the truth. The environment of the witness's / potential subject's home – photos, furniture, souvenirs, how it appeared in general, tidy or sloppy - helped him additionally to get an image of the respective person. But Ross was like a lotus leaf. His sphinx-like face and functional furnished office gave nothing away, not how he felt, not what he thought or wanted.
He had absolutely no clue how he would react. Bobby took in a deep breath.
"I… I have… feelings for Eames," he admitted reluctantly. "I can't… stay here. Not with her as partner… not with her here at all. I can't… do my job anymore when she's around and… districts me." Now the cat was out of the bag. It had felt like pulling teeth to force these few words out.
"I can't believe this!" Ross exclaimed.
Ross wasn't angry like he'd expected, on the contrary. Sheer childlike surprise was reflected in his face and his outburst stressed it. If he weren't so tense and anxious he probably would've laughed.
"I'd have never considered that…"
A jolt of annoyance rushed through Bobby. {i}Don't I have the right to find someone? What am I? A monk? An extraterrestrial life form? This to him strange agressive impulse irritated him.
Ross must've notice it because his expression changed to conciliatory. Have I said anything of this aloud? he wondered.
"It's just… you never showed any sentiments other than… cooperative."
Bobby didn't answer. He didn't know what. That Ross of all people would know it best? My, since when was he so cynic?
"How long is this already going?"
"I don't know… really. But... Jo Gage. Then I could no longer ignore it."
He still remembered how his stomach sunk to his knees and air run short and he felt sick and lightheaded when he saw the blood in Eames' kitchen. On her counter where Jo Gage had smashed her head against and then took her to her hideaway. Where Eames ear witnessed the psyched out woman torture a young woman to death only feet away from her and faced the same fate. Jo had wanted to catch the attention of her profiler father, his mentor Declan, who had always cared more about his career than her. For this reason she'd copied the one killer Declan never caught.
"Gage! That's almost a year ago!"
"Yeah."
Ross wiped his hand over his face, trying to regain his composure. "Does Eames know?"
"Are you serious?"
"Tell her," Ross said with a conviction in his voice that surprised him. "I've witnessed the strain and coldness between you both and if I'm honest it wasn't and isn't a pretty sight to see you both wear yourself down with work instead of facing this like two adults. This Quinn case was a mess and put a lot of strain on her. I even tried to withdraw her from it but then she probably would've just kept on..." He paused a pensive expression on his face. Well, you might have figured out this whole mess but you certainly ripped open some old wounds. If she wouldn't care she wouldn't behave to you like that. It would only be fair for her to know since it concerns her, too."
Such openness and insight totally perplexed him and left him speechless.
Ross put away his written notice and eyed Bobby.
"I tell you something, Detective. You and Eames talk this out and when you did we will have another talk about this." He patted the envelope.
"Well, Sir, that won't change anything-"
"We'll have another talk about this," Ross repeated in a tone that didn't allow protest, a razor sharp undertone in his sonorant voice that was only too familiar to Bobby. He almost exclusively used it when talking to him. His features softened. "Go home, Detective. I'll see for it that any incoming cases will go to your colleague. Get some sleep, something to eat..." He paused. "Well, you have a whole weekend to find a solution for your personal issues. See you Monday."
With these very clear words of dismissal Bobby rose. Somehow this conversation had been… unreal. He felt like a student who'd been called to the principal's office and just got a lecture. He was incredibly relieved that this very unpleasant meeting was over. He wouldn't have expected that this crucial talk would go so… well. Ross however had totally taken him off guard. He would've never thought that he'd be so… reasonable and even more supportive. He didn't know what he expected but certainly not that.
But only when he closed the door to the Captain's office and turned back to the noisy squad room he realized that this had only been a preliminary exercise to the real thing. He looked around. His colleagues sat at their desks and phoned or wrote reports. Some were in company who they escorted to the interrogation rooms in the back of the squad room. They yelled at each other, asking for and sharing facts about their respective cases or joking, their voice accompanied by the familiar clicking of keyboards. Some went around, to the vending machines outside, the bathroom, to get coffee. Nothing special, just a normal day.
He felt like someone slapped him when his look fell on their joined desks. Eames looked at him, worry etched in her features which had aged too much in the last few weeks. Her hair hung around her face in messy tresses and deep shadows surrounded her dull hazel eyes. Wrinkles had etched deep into the corners of her mouth and forehead.
Oh, Alex, why can't you just keep on ignoring or snapping at me? That would make things so much easier.
He wanted nothing more than to tell her but the sheer thought of it made him physically sick. He'd always thought that having found someone would make one euphoric and walk on water and not scare the crap out of one. What if she didn't return it? It was likely. A lot had happened between them lately. What if she returned it? What should he do then? To admit it to Ross was one thing, but to her directly a totally different. It would be the first time he'd really open up to someone, lay his feelings bare and expose himself in a way he'd never done, never dared it before. He'd be raw and defenseless… she'd have the power to shatter him into pieces with just a few words.
He swallowed and slowly approached his desk. He didn't dare to look at her of fear to say or do something he could regret later… like pouring his heart and mind right here or pull her against him or... worse. He'd never felt something so strange and confusing before and he feared that it'd show when he looked at her. He distracted himself with putting on his jacket and buttoning it up.
"I'll call it a day. See you tomorrow." His voice sounded unfamiliar and distant to him.
"What's wrong, Bobby?"
He wanted to groan with frustration and bad conscience. Why do you make this so hard, Alex?
"What do you mean?"
To the worry in her face this familiar "Don't mess with me, I'm not stupid" tone added.
"I'm not blind, Goren. Ross' features derailed! I even saw it from here. What were you talking about?"
"Personal issues."
She blinked. "What-"
He couldn't bear anymore even looking at her. It hurt. He hated himself for putting her through this. He wanted nothing more than to leave, to hide and try to think of a way out of this muddled mess. He wished he knew what to do.
"See you tomorrow, Alex."
He didn't look away quickly enough to miss the hurt and confusion in Eames' face. It was the hardest thing to just turn fully around and walk away. In the elevator he pushed the button to the underground car park and leaned against the wall next to the panel. He felt like scum. She'd opened up to him for the first time in weeks, had cared and expressed worry for him and he shoved her away. He'd feared what he'd do if he stayed therefore he'd run.
The elevator came to a halt. He stepped out and went to his car, a historic MG convertible. He exited the car park on Pearl Street, turned left on Park Row and drove on the ramp of the Brooklyn Bridge a few minutes later. It was shortly after four and the rush hour hadn't set in yet so he made drafty progress. Only fifteen minutes later he parked his car in the driveway of the little house in Brooklyn Heights he'd bought twenty years ago for a ridiculously low price.
It had been a dump due for demolition. He and a few friends had renovated it and turned it into a decent place again. He took a look into the post box and then climbed the slender stairs up to the front door with the massive dark green door. The old one had been a beauty with carefully carved ornaments and small windowpanes. It had been beyond repair, been rotten by the elements it had been exposed to for too long. He closed it behind him and hung his coat in the wardrobe in the hallway. Winter arrived early this year as it looked. In the nights and early mornings it already got bitterly cold.
My God! His jaw dropped when he saw his reflection in the mirror surface of the wardrobe door. Now he knew why Eames behaved so civil towards him when she only snapped at him or ignored him the previous weeks.
His graying curls were longer than was good for them, stubble covered his hollow cheeks and dark circles surrounded his dull eyes. His skin had taken on a sickly grayish tone. He'd lost not only too much sleep while lying awake with racing mind at night but also weight he notices surprised. His suit was at one number too big. He felt and looked like a walking dead.
The distraction of work was no longer there and so the tension it provided, the constant change and need to adjust to new situations like desk work, interviews, lab and morgue visits. There wasn't too much time to think about other things. But now… he already sensed the mental loop in his mind being set into motion, the root of what caused the friction between him and Eames.
He sighed and turned away. He knew he couldn't flee these thoughts that'd repeat themselves again and again in his mind so he didn't even try. But that wouldn't keep him from taking a shower and change. He climbed up the stairs to the attic which he had turned into his private realm; bedroom, bathroom and his study. The second floor consisted of a guest room with attached bathroom and two larger rooms he used as "attic".
The large room in the roof proofed to be too precious to stuff it with things that would mould to dust there. In the roof was a dome made of a differently colored glass mosiac under which he'd placed his bed. It was separated from the staircase, bathroom and study by an extra wall he'd let put up during the renovation. On other side the wall was a spacious wardrobe. There he took off his clothes and shoes and let them where they fell on a messy little pile. He took a pair of stonewashed jeans and a gray John Jay sweatshirt and entered the bathroom opposite of the wardrobe.
He turned on the shower and then just stood under the hot jet, let it beat down on his tense neck and shoulders. His body began to relax but his mind run hot. Maybe it was because Ross mentioned the Quinn case during their talk what he had carefully tried to ignore whenever he could, but now he couldn't get away.
It all began with the brutal murder of Kevin Quinn, a colleague shot during an undercover job. His partner Copa who wasn't present during the actual act identified the gang leader Johnny Sang as the shooter. Copa identified Sang when they reconstructed the crime and later in a line-up. But Copa suffered from a visual defect that made it impossible for him to see clear at night. He barely managed it in plain light…
It didn't take long until the Chief of Detectives got wind of his demolition of Copa's identification and gave him hell for it. Paradoxically Ross took side for him then what really had surprised him. It took Eames some overcoming to understand why he had to do it but she supported him.
He remembered how he drove her to Quinn's funeral the next day. He didn't accompany her in to spare her the hostilities Quinn's relatives and colleagues certainly had against him. That was the last thing she needed. She'd known Quinn personally… So he waited outside, where Copa almost jumped in his face when he noticed him. "I'm riding my desk right now, probably they'll even fire me. Thank you very much, Detective."
The last word he spat as if it was some bad taste in his mouth he wanted to get rid of. He had indeed felt guilty for the man's plight. He knew he had humiliated him but it wasn't his fault when he testified knowingly wrong. He could even understand why Copa did it.
He'd worked at Narcotics before he transferred to Major Case. It was an awful and life-threatening job to work one's way up in the gang hierarchy, win the boss's trust and then wait for the right moment to turn him in. He' done it long enough himself and was tempted to do what Copa did more often than he felt comfortable to admit to himself. When blaming Sang Copa not only cut off the head of his gang but he also used him as a substitute for the real murderer of Quinn. He quickly found his friend's murderer and so made up the fact that he wasn't there to protect him but instead visited his "girlfriend" a few blocks away.
He thought it couldn't get worse when Quinn's son literally knocked him down when he rammed backwards with his skateboard. He still heard the little boy's voice who'd asked him if he had of this detective who'd let the murderer of his father go. "The Chief says he's a whackjob."
He'd felt so guilty and such self-hatred that it almost made him puke. Following the correct procedure in theory was a good thing. In such an explosive case like the Quinn case it was immensely important, probably even more than usual since the victim was one of their own and no one wanted the killer to get away with it. But seeing what it could actually cause made him wonder if it was worth the prize.
The talk he had with Eames after the reception was both very moving and painful for him. She'd told him about her connection to Quinn already. He'd been her deceased husband's partner. Joe Dutton was killed during a drug deal gone wrong and Quinn had testified against his murderer.
"You know the strange thing? After Joe's… death all these people I saw again at Kevin's reception were at the hospital with me after he was shot. I got all these offers, you know? 'Whatever you need, just ask. We'll be there for you.' And so on. It only took a short time and no one was there anymore. They'd all forgotten. I saw them again for the first time in eight years."
Her voice shook with hurt and regret, the knowledge that it probably would be the same with Quinn's widow.
"You know, after such a loss you just… shut down. When you don't let anyone get near you you must not admit to anyone how you feel... feel at all. You can pretend that… it isn't real. When someone's there who was with you during or shortly after the loss, witnessed it…"
He couldn't continue. His own pain and sorrow consumed him and he could barely concentrate on the road anymore. He didn't even know what he was talking about until he'd almost finished.
The reality of his mother's death had hit him with the force of a sledgehammer. She'd down only four months ago and until that day five weeks ago he'd carefully suppressed it what was hard since he was on paid leave to grief how the officials had put it and he had to get truly creative to keep his inner wall up. But Eames' pain had torn a peace out of it. He couldn't bear her hurting so bad and wanted to comfort her even if it was counterproductive for himself.
They didn't have much time to deal with their open emotional wounds since another gang war victim turned up, a dealer named Alfred Minaya. He was also familiar to Eames. He'd been the second witness of Joe's murder and he'd also pointed his finger at Ray Delgado who sat in prison for the Dutton murder.
They'd visited him in Dannemora to question him about the murders. It couldn't be a coincidence that the two men who'd turned him in nine years ago ended up shot dead only four days apart. Delgado didn't admit anything and answered his questions without hesitation.
However he'd never seen Eames as upset as in the prison. She was so snappy and edgy that he'd feared that she'd jump Delgado in the face any moment. Disgust had shown in her stiff posture and jumpy movements and a hatred he'd never seen before in her radiated from her hazel eyes, turning them into dark, blazing orbs.
What had worried him was not only that she was angry at him for doubting Delgado's guilt but also that she insisted on Delgado being it. He had to admit that it fit. Dutton and Quinn worked undercover in Delgado's drug ring. Dutton's cover blew up and Delgado shot him. Quinn saw it and testified against him as well as Minaya who was caught a few hours later and thought it smarter to cooperate with the authorities. Additionally Delgado had learned only a few weeks ago that his petition for probation was turned down. So he arranged the murder of the two men who brought him behind bars. Case closed.
That had been Eames' reality for nine years. Of course she'd defend it tooth and nail. If it proved wrong the life she built after her husband's death would be shattered because she built it on a lie and realizing that would probably be too much for her.
Her obsession with Delgado worried him. It made her a danger to the case but even more her own peace of mind and her sanity because she urgently wanted to proof her theory and didn't allow. She shut out everything that opposed it. She lost her objectivity and emotional distance it took for their work.
He'd reopened the Dutton murder. Everything just fit too well, they must've overlooked something. Things were rarely as clear as they looked at first sight. Never in his life would he forget the look on Eames' face when she entered the conference room where he'd prepare the evidence from Joe's murder. He had tried to talk some sense back into her, that they needed to consider all dimensions of this complex case to solve it but Eames was too caught up in her loop of denial and defense of it.
His stomach had turned into a tight knot and his heart clenched when her features contorted in felt and emotional pain and she choked out. "This isn't just one of your damn puzzles, Bobby. This is my life." Her voice was high, squeaky and crumbly at the same time. Tears flowed down her cheeks.
That was the moment he realized that he couldn't continue working with Eames. Instead of staying focused on work he'd wanted nothing more than to drag her on his lap, wrap his arms around her and shield her from all evil the world might still have in petto for her. It was this scene, both the real and the imagined one, that kept him sleepless at night for weeks already…
Later the same day the result from forensics had arrived and changed everything. Both Minaya and Quinn were shot with the same weapon. It turned out to be a gun that was the standard model of officers in Vietnam. Both the gun and its ammunition weren't produced anymore but the killer had used them what narrowed down the circle of suspects immensely.
One of the owners of such a rare gun had been an Emilio Delgado who turned out to be Ray Delgado's father. He had nothing against showing them that the weapon was still in his possession, however his grandson Victor, Ray's son. His reaction had been strong and traitorous. He'd tried to talk the old man out of showing the gun to him, Bobby, tried to get away from him. He only stayed because his grandfather told him it would be impolite to leave without greeting a guest.
Later it turned out that not only the weapon had been gone from its case – what had truly surprised the old man – but even more that it was indeed Victor who had killed both Minaya and Quinn as revenge for turning his father in.
He was only nine when his father was imprisoned and this day he'd only seen him under observation and separated by bars. The anger and hatred against these two men who took away his father with their statement at court had time to boil for nine years to fill him until it became too much. The refuse of the probation commission to set his father free was the proverbial last drop.
Victor only confessed after they brought his grandfather in. Then he'd turned from the badass back into the little boy he was once. The change was remarkable. He became fidgety, anxious. He couldn't sit still anymore, almost started to cry… like a frightened child. Then he broke down and confessed. He didn't want his grandfather, the only father figure he'd had for nine years, to go to prison for something he didn't do. So the case was closed, they had their confession… or so it seemed.
It was an old cigarette butt or more precisely the DNA remnants on it that turned everything upside down. It had been found at the scene of Dutton's murder but the results of the tests nine years ago were inconclusive. A new test with better developed DNA-technology determined that the DNA neither belonged to Ray Delgado nor to Minaya what meant that a third person was present at the scene during the murder. He'd never forget the shock on Eames' face when she realized what that meant. The lie she'd based the decade after her husband's murder on had blown up right into her face. Never had he hated more being right.
From interviews in the scene he knew that Minaya had had a little "appendix" whenever he was doing "business": a young boy carrying big gun. They'd been inseparable but unfortunately the witness didn't remember specific details.
They'd gotten the answer they needed when they interviewed Minaya's family again. His mother and sisters had talked voluntarily and abundant about their deceased son and brother and the close connection he'd had to his little cousin, Manny Beltran. The tragic thing wasn't only that he really was Joe Dutton's murderer but also what he had become.
He was the first member of his family who'd become a doctor. As an emergency surgeon he'd saved hundreds of lives. Joe's shooting had been a tragic accident. He was almost in tears when he told them what really happened.
Manny who was present during the drug deal. He thought that Joe wanted to draw a weapon and shot him to protect his cousin. He only noticed afterwards that Joe had only drawn his shield to identify himself. He'd become a doctor because of this event. He wanted to make up for the life he took by saving others.
He'd rarely met a murderer who really had regretted his deed. Eames almost broke down when listening to it. It took her all strength to not melt with the tears she so hard tried to swallow. Her voice sounded raw and strained when she finally informed him that he was arrested. He'd sensed how hard she tried to hate Beltran for taking Joe from her but his confession hadn't let her cold-
"Shit!" he panted.
The water had long turned cold but he'd been so caught up in his mind that he hadn't noticed. He quickly turned off the water then jumped off the shower cubicle before ripping a big, fluffy towel from the hook and wrapping himself in it. His teeth clattered while he rubbed his body with the towel to get warm again.
His gaze fell into the bathroom mirror. The circles around his eyes and the stubble were still there but his skin had a little healthier color, not so sickly gray anymore. When he was warm enough he wrapped the towel around his waist and covered the lower half of his face with shaving cream. A few minutes later the stubble had disappeared. Well, he couldn't do that with the circles around his eyes but at least he looked like a human being again… almost.
He wiped away the remnants of shaving cream from his face. Then he put on his snuggly clothes and brushed his wet hair back. He'd look like an aging playboy when they'd dry but he had other things on his mind. For example how he should deal with Eames... When he left the bathroom he stopped dead in his tracks.
There, leaning on the banister, stood Alex Eames, giving him an unreadable look.