Intentional End

Chapter 18

Saturday Morning

October 13

Bobby was dead tired; he never did get to sleep last night after Gleason's night terror. He was going to give George Huang a call and talk with him about her. Something is seriously wrong. Bobby showered and dressed quietly as Gleason slept soundly. He battled whether to wake her to tell her he was leaving for work.

"Gleason," he said so quietly, standing beside the bed, looking across at her. "Honey, I'm going to work." She didn't move, so he walked around the bed and sat beside her, brushing hair from her face, running his thumb over her cheek. He loved this woman so much, she was the world to him; and he was worried about her and frightened for her. "Honey?"

She sighed and shifted and Bobby's gut clenched. He didn't know if she would panic upon waking. "Baby, it's me, Bobby."

Slowly she awoke and stretched, looking at him. And she smiled.

It's her, it's her! "Good morning," he smiled at her. "How do you feel?"

"I'm so hungry." She saw that he was already dressed and asked, "What time is it?"

"Just after seven."

"Why are we awake so early? It's Saturday, isn't it?"

"Yes, but I have to go into work."

Her disappointment was obvious. "Oh, ok. Do you have to work all day?"

"I don't know, Sweetheart, I'll have to see how the day goes."

"Do you have time for us to go get breakfast?"

He looked at her and loved her, "Yes, of course. You get dressed and we'll go get breakfast."

Gleason smiled and reached for his head. He bent and they kissed – a soft, loving, gentle kiss. He took her hand and pulled back the covers with the other. "Get dressed."

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Bobby was an hour and a half late for work, and he didn't care. He had called Eames to let her know and she said she understood.

"You said Gleason had a bad night. Is she sick?"

"Uh, no, she's, she's better this morning, much better." He wanted to get going on what they had to do so that he could get back to her. She said she wanted to go shopping, just walk around. It was a lovely autumn day and she wanted to be outside. Bobby was concerned about her being out, but figured the likelihood of her being accosted in public was less than at home. Besides, he figured, apparently they had done yesterday whatever they were going to do her.

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He looks terrible, thought Eames. Bobby seemed preoccupied and sluggish, but at least his temper seemed to be in check. "Carver wants the pilot's wife arraigned first thing Monday. We have all day today and tomorrow to build this case. Thank goodn –."

"Uh, I want to get out of here early today and I need to take off tomorrow and probably Monday. Gleason's going back to Evanston and I want to go back with her, get her settled." Bobby said this all in a rush, not looking at his partner, moving papers and files on his desk.

Eames looked at him and didn't say anything because she was furious. He has taken off so much goddamn time! His mother's death notwithstanding, he has taken off days being drunk, being angry, being the spoiled brat that he has become. Goddamn him!

Bobby knew she was angry and he stole glances up at her, he put up both hands in the way he does and said, "Look, I know I've taken off a lot of time. And I know I've left you in the lurch a number of times, being drunk and stupid. I know you've carried the brunt of the workload. And, and I'm sorry. But, for right now, this is the way it has to be. Once things settle down, I'll, I'll be here." He glanced up at her and saw she was buying none of it.

Eames grabbed her cup and headed for the coffee room. Bobby wiped his face with his hands, pulled his cell and hit speed dial one.

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Gleason walked back toward the apartment after she and Bobby had had breakfast at the coffee shop. He wanted to take her back before he went on to work, but she wanted to walk. She had planned to walk for a while, but was suddenly tired and felt mildly sick.

She was half a block from home when her phone rang and she stopped to dig it from her bag. "Hello?"

She listened, "Yes." She listened and then, "Yes," again. She listened, and then said, "Yes," a final time. Gleason flipped shut her phone and returned it to her bag. She stood a moment, fighting dizziness, fought a gag and rushed home.

The man in the dark blue car flipped shut his phone and watched with a nasty grin as Gleason hurried along.

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Bobby's call to Gleason rang once and then went to dial tone – the indication that she was on the phone; she had no voice mail. Her phone would register a missed call and his number, so she'll call back, he figured; she was probably calling me.

Eames returned with a cup of tea. He glanced at her and said softly, "How about if I do the evidence inventory, catalogue the photos and write the narrative? Then I'll complete the transfer reports from last night and start the extradition paperwork for Carver's office." He did that inconsistent glancing thing he does.

His partner looked at him, took a sip of tea and said, "What do you want me to do?"

He looked at her steadily and said, "Don't be mad at me."

Eames smiled, shook her head and said, "Give me those extradition reports; you do the inventory." And, with that, the partners set to the task of creating the paper trail of evidence to indict the dead pilot's wife.

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Gleason opened the door to the apartment and just made it to the bathroom, leaving the front door open. Becky, from across the hall, carried a laundry basket of clean clothes from the stairwell, heading for her apartment and saw the Goren's door open. She recalled the trouble from last night, set down the basket and leaned into the living room. She heard Gleason retching and made her way down the hall.

"Gleason?"

The toilet flushed and Gleason stepped into the hallway and was terrified, "How did you get in here?"

"The, the door was open. Are you all right?"

Gleason stared at the other woman with her hands to her mouth. "Becky?" she asked, just now recognising her neighbor.

"Yes, Gleason, it's me, Becky. Are you all right?" she asked again, reaching to put a hand on Gleason's arm but she jerked away.

Gleason was suddenly embarrassed, "I, uh, I'm sorry, you startled me. That's all."

Becky was curious about last night. "Is Bobby home?"

"No, no. He had to go to work today."

"Why was your door open? Are you sure you're ok? You were sick."

Gleason needed to lie down, "Ah, Becky, I'm, I'm just really tired and need to lie down. It must be the flu or something. Please, let me lie down. Do you want Bobby to call you when he gets home?"

"No, that's not necessary. I just wanted to be sure you were ok." She looked at the tall beauty and wanted to ask about last night, but didn't know how. "Gleason, is everything ok between you and Bobby?"

Gleason stared at her neighbor, "What do you mean?"

"Well, Ted and I wondered if you and Bobby had separated since you were gone for all those weeks. I mean, he didn't seem to go to away and you certainly didn't come home."

"We weren't separated. I was, I . . .," and Gleason knew she couldn't say anything. I can't say anything; I can't, I won't say anything. ". . . you have to go. Please, just go."

Becky could see Gleason's anxiety increase. "All right, all right, I'm going," Becky said, again trying to touch her.

Gleason jerked away and whispered, "Hurry, they might see you."

Becky looked at the other woman and worried. "Ok, I'll call you later, ok?"

"Just go. Now." Gleason practically pushed Becky to the door, into the hallway and shut the door.

Picking up her basket, Becky was certain Bobby's wife had had, or was having, some sort of breakdown.

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"There, the photos are catalogued," Bobby said, stacking the last folder. He glanced at his watch and noted that Gleason had not called back. He flipped open his phone and dialed.

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Gleason locked the door after Becky left and stood wondering what to do next. Her cell rang and she fumbled for it.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Sweetheart, how do you feel?" Bobby was relieved that she answered.

"Bobby? Is that you?"

"Yes, Honey, it's me. Is everything all right? Where are you?" His fear started again.

Gleason had to stop and think a minute. "I got sick and then Becky was in the apartment. And someone called. I remember talking on the phone. I'm so tired, Bobby, when are you coming home?"

She sounded confused. She was sick? Who called? Why was Becky in the apartment? "Glea-, are you at the apartment now?"

"Yes."

"When did you get sick?"

"I wanted to walk after you left the coffee shop and I started to, but I got real tired and then my phone rang and then I had to hurry home and I was in the bathroom and when I came out, Becky was here. Are you coming home soon?"

"Who called you?"

She had to think again. I don't know. Who called me? What did they want? "I don't know. I'm really tired and want to go lie down. Come home. Bye." And she clicked off.

"Wait!" but all he heard was silence. Well, at least she is home, he thought. She is not well enough to go back to Evanston tomorrow. First the needs to see a doctor. And a psychiatrist. Bobby would call George Huang, the psychiatrist over at SVU, the first thing Monday morning.

"Everything ok?" Eames asked as she returned from the copy machine.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, fine. Listen, let's finish up for today. Uh, Gleason's probably not going back to Evanston tomorrow, so I'll be in. We can finish up a lot tomorrow. Ok?"

Eames wanted to get as much done today as possible. She glanced at the clock and said, "Can we work for another two hours? You write the narrative for the photos and I'll start the evidence inventory. We can work through lunch and be done by two, three at the latest."

Bobby knew his partner was right. Gleason said she was tired, she'd be sleeping anyway; neither of them got much sleep last night. Stay and get it done, he told himself.

"Ok, let's get it done."

The pair set to work.

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At the apartment, Gleason checked the lock on the door and went into the bedroom; she was exhausted. She stripped to panties and undershirt and slipped between the sheets; within five minutes, she was sound asleep.

Ten minutes later, the man from the blue car was inside the apartment, opening the black leather tool roll on the kitchen table and removed the replacement hinge pin. He expertly removed the original pin from the cupboard door to the right of the sink, slipped it in his pocket, and inserted the new one – with the omni-directional mike.

He stepped into the living room and slid the button-size camera and mike into the top corner of the tall bookcase; it would show the entire room, from the door, into the kitchen to the opposite corner. He stepped back after positioning it and looked for it, but even he couldn't see it. Thank god that detective swept the whole place the other day; dumb son-of-a-bitch, thinks he's so clever, he said to himself. In all honesty, he was jealous of the detective. He had had a taste of the pretty professor and knew how sweet she could be. He hated the cop because the bastard could have her anytime he wanted.

From the living room, he walked down the hall into the bedroom, stood in the doorway and admired the woman asleep on the bed, imagining what he'd like to do to her. He felt himself begin to stiffen and knew he had to finish and get out of there. The new camera and mike would give him plenty to see and hear. That last bit with the old camera was a priceless piece of work; classic porn humping – front and back. He'd burned a copy for himself before destroying the original like he had been told do.

The man stood at the foot of the bed and considered where to stick the new camera. He wanted to get a good view of everything that might happen on this bed. He pressed the screw-head size camera and mike into the corner of the picture hanging over the dresser. Again, he stepped back and searched, but could not see it.

He turned one more time to study the woman on the bed and felt himself twitch in his trousers. Then he left, considered leaving the front door open just a bit, but then pulled it shut and locked it and drove straight to JFK. Wycoff had one more place to fix.

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