An Ill Wind

Chapter Six
Down for the Night

OOO

16th Precinct
Special Victims Unit
8:11 P.M., November 19, 2005

"Yes, and please, tell him it's urgent!" Munch stressed.

Fin was busy typing his notes on the day's activities, though there wasn't much to report. The stake out at the bank had been a waste of time and the officers Cragen sent to serve the search warrant had found noting in DeVane's safety deposit box. They had also hit a dead end on Annie O'Keefe. Bert Green had given them a lot of information on DeVane's bizarre proclivities, but nothing they could really follow up on, and Lenny Davis, the bartender at Mac's, hadn't called to say DeVane had stopped in, not that anyone really expected him to. Lenny had made it clear that DeVane was unwelcome there, and they figured the little creep knew it, too. Captain Cragen and Olivia, who was officially off the clock but couldn't bring herself to go home while her partner's attacker was still on the loose, were reading Elliot's files on DeVane's original crimes. She didn't say anything, but Olivia took comfort in the fact that, out of respect for her partner, the captain had pulled up a chair beside her desk instead of sitting in Elliot's place across from her.

"That was Huang's office," John said as he dropped the phone in its cradle in frustration. "He's at some training in Quantico. They don't expect him back until late this evening. The woman I spoke to says she will tell him to call as soon as she can get a message through, but apparently, this training ends with an exam, and they won't interrupt it for us."

Don looked his detectives over one by one. This case was taking an immeasurable toll on all of them already. Munch and Fin had been on for more than twenty-four hours straight. After he had taken Elliot's statement in the wee hours of the morning, he had sent Olivia home, but he doubted that she had slept well. Even if she had managed to doze, the strain of walking her partner through a rape exam had to have been at least as taxing as the long hours the other two had worked. He supposed, if he were to look in the mirror, he would find that he didn't look much better than they did, but he was somewhat older than Fin, old enough to be Olivia's father, and had more responsibility on him than Munch. He had a reason to look like hell. Mostly, though, they were all struggling with the knowledge that one of their own had become one of their victims.

He sighed, wishing there was a way all four of them could go home and have a good night's sleep for once. "Ok. Munch, Fin, once you finish your reports, go home. Eat, sleep, and change into some fresh clothes. Someone will call and let you know when Huang will be here. Liv see if you can find a current address for Annie O'Keefe, then you get some rest, too."

Looking to Fin, Olivia asked, "Didn't you say she'd gotten married?"

"Yeah, the bartender said it was to some Wall Street type with money, but he didn't remember the dude's name."

"Then I guess I'll start with a search of marriage licenses and if that doesn't pan out, I'll try the online society pages. How long ago was it?"

"Bartender said about ten years," Fin replied.

"Ok, I'll start then and work my way forward."

Turning to her captain with a look of concern on her face, she asked, "What are you going to do? I think you've been on duty longer than any of us."

Cragen sighed and said, "I have a list of a couple of dozen names of people who volunteered to help when they heard Elliot was attacked. So, I'm going to put together a stakeout detail for Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday at the bank."

"Why don't you let me do that?" Liv offered. "Tomorrow's Sunday, and the bank is closed, so it's nothing that can't wait until I finish Googling Annie O'Keefe."

The captain shrugged wearily, and without another word, he turned and headed back into his office. The three detectives watched their captain trudge off, and they all felt for him. He was very much a father figure to each of them, even Munch, who was actually somewhat older than Don, but they knew he had a special connection with Elliot, something they couldn't define and didn't resent because the captain took great pains to treat them equally. He had to be hurting, perhaps more than any of them, to know that such a horrible thing had happened to one of his charges.

Olivia looked back to Munch and Fin, wondering if they should do anything. Both men read her expression clearly, but didn't know how to respond. Fin opened his mouth as if to speak, but then closed it without a word, shrugged, and went back to typing his reports. Munch sighed and booted up his computer, ready to begin his own. Olivia unwittingly echoed their reactions with a shrug and a sigh of her own, closed the file she had been reading and then went into one of their data bases to search wedding licenses for Annie O'Keefe. After a few minutes of tapping keys, she realized that she should also be searching, Ann, Anne, Anna, Annabel, Annalise, Anneya, and probably a few other permutations of Annie that she would never think of without a book of baby names.

Looking over her shoulder at Munch and Fin, she called, "Hey guys?"

"Yeah?" came the choral response.

"Do you have a phone number for the bar where DeVane hung out?"

"Mac's?" Fin asked, "Yeah, hold on."

He took out his notebook and scratched the number down on a blank page and then passed it across to her by way of Munch. "What do you need that for?" he asked as she accepted the paper.

"I'm trying to narrow my search," she explained, and began to dial.

"Mac's Tavern. How many in your party?"

"Actually, I'm not calling for reservations," Olivia said loudly enough for the girl at the other end to hear her over the din of the rowdy patrons she was obviously serving. "My name is Olivia Benson and I'm with the NYPD. I'm calling to speak to the manager, uh . . . " she rolled her eyes to Munch and repeated the name he whispered to her into the phone. "A Mr. Lenny Davis. Tell him I'm calling on behalf of John Munch and Fin Tutuola."

"Oh, I see. Those guys left him pretty pissed off. I don't know if he'll want to talk to you."

"Then just imagine how he'll feel if I have to come down there tonight and start asking him questions in front of his patrons," Olivia threatened.

"Hold, please."

A few moments later, the phone was picked up again, and this time there was very little background noise.

"Look, I don't know what you want from me, but I have done everything I can to help you. This mess is bad for my business, and if you don't stop harassing me, I'm going to file a complaint against you."

"Mr. Davis," Olivia said soothingly, "nobody is trying to give you any trouble here, but we need to get Roger DeVane off the streets before he hurts anyone else. I'm having some trouble locating Annie O'Keefe, and I was hoping you might have some more information to help me."

"Hey, I told those guys everything I knew about her and that weirdo, which wasn't a hell of a lot, and I will call you if he shows up. So don't you go trying to screw up my life and my livelihood just because you can't find him!"

"Mr. Davis," Liv continued placatingly, "I know you were cooperative. Detectives Munch and Tutuola told me so." She looked hopefully at John and the nod she got told her it was true. "It's just that, sometimes, after we talk to them, people remember things they had previously forgotten, or they decide to tell us something they didn't think was important before. And sometimes, like now, we have some additional questions that we didn't know we needed to be asking during the first interview. If you can just tell me a couple of things, we shouldn't have to bother you any more unless DeVane shows up at your place."

She heard a resigned sigh. "What do you want to know?"

Pleased with herself for getting past the man's defensive attitude without having him hang up on her, Liv bypassed the obvious first question, what was Annie's real first name, and went straight for the less obvious, but more informative ones.

"First of all, is there anyone there right now who might have received and kept a copy of her wedding invitation?"

"Well, I got one, but I don't hang on to stuff like that, and none of the staff here now were working for me when Annie got married."

Strike one. "Ok, do you know if her wedding announcement made the wedding pages of the Times?" Liv asked, expecting a surprised response to the seemingly off-the-wall question. She heard an amused snort from Munch and turned in her chair to give him a cool look even as Lenny Davis railed in her ear.

"How the hell would I know? I don't pay attention to crap like that!"

"I realize that, Mr. Davis," she said, giving Munch a superior look, "but for a bride, making the Times wedding page is like winning a Tony for a Broadway performer. If she made it, chances are she told everyone she knew and bought most of them copies of the paper. She would have made sure you saw it."

There was a silence at the end of the line.

"Mr. Davis?"

"Hold on a sec, will ya?"

"Sure."

As she listened to the silence on the phone, Olivia looked to Munch and Fin and said, "He seems to have recalled something."

"I found it. She had it laminated and posted it on the bulletin board in the break room. Someone drew a mustache on her face. I can't believe it's been there this long. Maybe that's why we never get a perfect score on our health inspection."

The voice at the other end had gone from excited to thoughtful, and Liv couldn't help but smile. Most people, when they experienced the thrill of actually discovering a useful clue to help the police, couldn't help but feel a little enthusiasm for their civic duty.

"Hmm, says here she married a guy named Randall Webb Othmer. Wow! His mom's family traces themselves all the way back to one of Teddy Roosevelt's grand kids, and his dad's people have a library named after them in Brooklyn. No wonder she got out of this dump!"

Liv was itching to read the announcement for herself, so she broke into his musings. "Ok, Mr. Davis, do you have a fax machine?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah."

"Good. I need to you fax me a copy of that announcement right away. Is there a date on it?"

"Yeah. The wedding was August 26, 1995."

"Great," she said, jotting the date down so she wouldn't forget it in her excitement. "Mr. Davis, if you could just fax it to me, we should be out of your hair from now on."

"Perfect! What's the number?"

Liv gave him the fax number for the machine in the squad room and ended the call with an apology. "Mr. Davis, I really am sorry for any inconvenience we may have caused you, but we need to get this guy off the streets as soon as possible. We had to follow up all the information we found on him, and with any luck, what you have given us will lead us to him. We do appreciate your cooperation, Sir."

There was silence at the other end of the line, and then a sigh.

"Yeah, I know. It's just that last time that guy was mixed up with my place, a lot of my customers freaked out and quit coming in. I was operating in the red for months, and almost lost the business. I had just finished paying off the loan I had to take out to keep afloat last month, and your guys showed up asking questions about him again. Look, tell those other two I'm sorry for being such a jerk. I really do hope you get DeVane soon, but I hope I only hear about it on the news this time."

Olivia's radar picked up something and she had to ask. "This time? How did you find out about it last time?"

"Are you kidding? You really don't know? They busted him in the main dining room. He was trying to get Annie to lend him her car."

Olivia opened Elliot's file and scanned it quickly. She gasped when she realized why she hadn't made the connection. "Your place used to be named Lenny's," she said in surprise. "Why did you change the name?"

"I hired a consultant to help me save the business. Maybe you don't remember it, but everybody around here was afraid for their kids. Some guy had already kidnapped and molested six little girls, and he was trying to get away with the seventh when the cops grabbed him in my tavern. The consultant told me changing the name would help people stop associating this place with the things DeVane did, so I named it after my dad. I don't know how much good that did, but some of the guy's suggestions must have worked, because we're still here."

"I see, well, again, I am sorry for the inconvenience, and thanks for your help."

"Yeah. I'll send that fax out right away. You'll have it in a couple of minutes."

Liv crossed the room with Elliot's old file in hand. By the time she had finished reading his account of the arrest, the fax machine had spat out a grainy but readable copy of a wedding announcement from the New York Times. Right away, she could see why DeVane had been drawn to Annelle Elizabeth O'Keefe. Even past the penciled in moustache, she could see the childlike features of the young woman. Annie didn't look a day over twelve years old.

Back at her computer, she typed in some of the vital statistics she could glean from the announcement, and minutes later, she placed a one-page printout on Fin's desk. At his inquiring look, she said, "Home and work addresses and phone numbers for Annie O'Keefe and Randall Webb Othmer."

Fin shot his partner a glance and handed the printout across their desks. Munch said, "The night is young, and they're not far away. Let's go check it out."

Olivia went back to reading Elliot's old file while the other detectives finished their reports in record time. On his way out, Munch put a hand on Olivia's shoulder, leaned down close to her ear, and said softly, "You did good work. Elliot's going to be ok. Go home and get some rest."

"I'll be home and in bed by ten, I promise," she said, reaching up to squeeze her friend's hand gratefully. "I just feel like I need to be doing something right now. I know Elliot better than anyone in the squad; maybe if I can figure out how he solved the old cases, I can help find DeVane now."

Munch gave her a nod and a smile and left.

Room 327
St. Vincent's Hospital, Manhattan
8:17 P.M., November 19, 2005

Doctor Peter Dombroski slowly manipulated the fractured ankle, and cringed himself when Elliot went rigid and took in a sharp breath of pain. He didn't usually spend much time with his patients once they were out of the ER and into a room, but it was the weekend and the orthopedic specialist Elliot needed to see was off duty. Mrs. Stabler had tracked him down at the beginning of his four-to-twelve shift and pleaded with him to help her get her husband released. Peter knew the ankle fracture was minor, the mechanical injuries to his patient's hand could wait until his orthopedic consult on Monday, and everything else was superficial. The only reason to hold Elliot longer would be if there were signs of vascular damage preventing proper blood flow to the hand or signs of neurological damage that threatened his use of the appendage. So, Peter had no problem coming by during a slow period in the ER to do a final check before sending the man home.

"Ok, the new x-ray still shows just a hairline fracture," he said as he took the sock that Kathy held out to him and slid it very gently over Elliot's foot, "but there isn't much swelling, and you seem to have good mobility. That's a good sign."

Carefully, he slipped a rigid plastic brace over the foot and ankle and tightly fastened the Velcro straps that held it in place. "That should immobilize it effectively," Peter said, "and you can take it off to shower and change your socks. We just need to wait a few minutes to make sure it isn't too tight."

"How will we know it's too tight?" Elliot asked.

"Your toes will get cold and your foot will fall asleep," the doctor explained. "In the meantime, how are you feeling?"

Elliot wanted to answer, but finding the words wasn't easy. Finally, he decided to stick with his physical condition. The rest could wait until he saw Rebecca again. "Getting some sleep has helped a lot," he admitted, "but the anti-AIDS meds make me nauseous and throwing up is hell on my ribs."

Peter nodded and moved to the bedside table where he looked through the various prescription bottles Kathy had already picked up at the pharmacy. Nodding in satisfaction, he said, "I can write you a scrip for some compazine. That should help. How's the hand?"

"Mostly a dull throb," Elliot admitted. "The painkillers take the edge off."

"Good." Peter waited a moment in case his patient had more to say, then when Elliot didn't speak, he said, "I have to examine the lacerations on your hand to make sure they aren't getting infected. I'll try not to jostle it too much, but it's probably going to hurt anyway."

After a brief pause, Elliot said, "Just do what you gotta do so I can get the hell out of here, ok?"

"All right, then. Do you want to take the splint off yourself, or do you want me to do it?"

Elliot hesitated only a few seconds before he began gingerly to peel apart the closures that held the splint around his hand and wrist. As soon as the device fell open, the support was gone and the pain ratcheted up a few notches. After giving Elliot some time to adjust to the increased discomfort, Peter asked, "Is it all right if I remove the bandages now?"

Elliot nodded, saying, "Yeah, just . . . be careful."

It was all the detective could do to hold still while his doctor peeled off the gauze covering his wounds. Nothing Peter did was painful, yet, but the fear of impending pain was real and Elliot instinctively wanted to pull away. The tension of anticipating what the doctor would do next made his ribs ache miserably, but he could do nothing, think of nothing, to make himself relax, so he just clenched his jaw and endured it.

"Ok, everything on the back of your hand looks like healthy healing," Peter said cheerfully despite the ugly purple, brown, and green mottling. "Now I need to check the underside of your wrist, and that means I have to lift your hand. Brace yourself."

"Wait!" Elliot barked. "Let me." He gritted his teeth and took a couple of slow breaths to prepare himself, and then he raised his forearm to expose the underside of his wrist. It was a simple motion, but it left him gasping in pain and when Kathy took his good hand in hers, he held on tight. He whimpered slightly when the doctor pulled the bandages away and tried to look at anything in the room except his mangled hand and his wife's worried gaze.

"The skin is already healing beautifully," Peter told him, gently laying the bandages over the wounds to keep them covered, "and while I'm no expert, I expect Doctor Wells will be able to fix the internal damage easily enough. Now, I just want you to relax here, until a nurse comes to re-bandage your hand. How is your foot?"

Elliot wiggled his toes. "All right. It doesn't seem to be cold or tingling."

Smiling at Kathy, Peter said, "You can help him get his shoes on now." Then he started scribbling on his prescription pad. Tearing off a sheet, he placed it under one of the several bottles already on the bedside table and said, "That's for the compazine for nausea, and I'm going to write you another one for a crutch. It's ok to walk on your ankle as much as you can tolerate it," he explained, "but I want you to use that crutch for support, and I want you to elevate your foot whenever you sit or lie down, got it?"

"Yeah. So now can I go home?"

"Just as soon as someone re-bandages your wounds you can sign the discharge papers at the nurses' station on this floor and you're a free man, at least until your consult on Monday."

Elliot extended his good hand and found a genuinely grateful smile somewhere. "Thanks, Doc."

Peter shook with him and said, "You're welcome. You just take care of yourself, let your wife help you, and do what your doctor says, and I'm sure you will heal just fine."

Elliot nodded, but said nothing more. Both men knew he had wounds that went deeper than his physical injuries.

Residence of Annelle & Randall Othmer
W. 93rd Street & Central Park West
8:31 P.M., November 19, 2005

"I think you ought to take the lead this time," Munch said as he and Fin approached the Othmer residence, a big brownstone house in a neighborhood so wealthy even the snow in the gutters along the street seemed whiter than it did in the rest of the city.

"Ok, but why?"

With a mischievous grin the Jewish Detective looked at his African-American partner and said, "Because your people have more experience bowing and scraping to people like these to keep them happy. My people, on the other hand, generally try to cheat them out of their money in the Diamond District."

Fin shot Munch a sour look that couldn't quite contain his amusement at the insightful wisecrack. Sadly, Munch's reasoning made sense. Still, Fin couldn't let it slide without comment. "If anyone else in the department had said that, I'd be filing a complaint, you know."

Not missing a beat, Munch shot back, "I love you, too."

"Shut up." Fin rang the bell.

"This from the man who once introduced me as his Jew."

The door opened just then, preventing another less than eloquent comeback, and flashing his badge at a man who was obviously a servant, he said, "Detectives Odafin Tutuola and John Munch, NYPD. We need to speak to Mrs. Othmer regarding a police matter."

The butler or doorman or manservant or whatever he was called glared at the two cops as if they were cockroaches crawling in his pantry, but all he said in his cool, cultured voice was, "Certainly, gentlemen, won't you come in?"

As they stepped into the brownstone, the soft sounds of a string quartet and quiet conversation filtered down the hall. The butler ushered them into a small parlor just off the main entrance and said, "Wait here, please. Madam will be with you presently."

As he left, the servant firmly shut the door behind him. A moment later, Munch crossed the room and tried the knob. It turned easily and he said, "At least he didn't lock us in."

Fin grinned at him. "I was expecting to wait outside."

"Oh, no," Munch said. "The neighbors would talk."

Fin merely grunted in reply.

The detectives inspected the furnishings and artwork in their luxurious cell for a few minutes, and then the door swung open on silent hinges, and Mrs. Annelle O'Keefe Othmer smiled and asked, "Gentlemen, how can I help you?"

"We need to ask you some questions about a man named Roger DeVane," Fin said bluntly.

Annie's eyes grew wide and her face flushed red. Slamming the door shut behind her, she stepped closer to the detectives and said in a harsh whisper, "I don't know who the hell sent you, but I haven't seen him in over twelve years. That part of my past is dead and buried."

"Yeah, well, he's out on parole, lady, and he's wanted on four counts of rape and three counts of murder," Fin told her. "We need any background you can give us on him, and we can ask our questions here and now, or we can find you at your job or at one of your high-toned charity events and ask them there, in front of all your society friends and co-workers. Your choice."

For a moment, Mrs. Othmer was furiously angry, and then suddenly, Annie, the tavern waitress showed up. "Look, guys, somehow, against all odds, I have gotten really lucky. I have a wonderful husband from a great family who really loves me. He doesn't know about DeVane, and if I have anything to say about it, he never will. I can't screw this up.

"My husband plays squash at the club every Sunday, leaves here about seven and returns around lunchtime. Give me your card, and I will be at your station by eight tomorrow, with bells on, to tell you anything you want to know, just please, don't let my misbegotten relationship with Roger DeVane get back to my husband."

The woman seemed sincere, and sincerely desperate. Fin looked to his partner and Munch gave him what anyone else would view as an apathetic shrug. Fin, having worked with the man for years now knew it was really carte blanche to do whatever he saw fit.

Opening his wallet, he flicked out a business card and handed it over to Mrs. Othmer. "If you're even one minute late," he said allowing himself to slip slightly into the thug tone he used when he was under cover or trying to shake a tough suspect, "I'll have a patrol car an' two uniformed officers out here canvassin' the neighborhood. I can guarantee they'll be knockin' on lots of door an' askin' all the neighbors embarrassin' questions about you."

She bristled at that. "There's no need to threaten me, Detective. I'll be there. Now, if you'd excuse me, my husband and I are entertaining some guests. Perhaps you know them. There's the deputy mayor and his wife, and the state attorney general and his wife with their daughter and her husband. Such a lovely young man, he's on the short list for democratic candidate for lieutenant governor in the next election."

"Lady, I don't impress that easy, so you don't need to tell me who your friends are. Now, if you had Spike Lee in there, I'd ask for an introduction . . . maybe. But I know he has too much class to be seen in a joint like this."

"Darling, is everything all right?"

The voice was definitely Ivy League, and the face, when Randall Webb Othmer came into the room, was obviously all-American. "Gentlemen, can I help you?" He asked the question cordially enough, but his expression showed that, like the butler, he regarded them as little more than vermin.

"No, Love, it's all right," Mrs. Othmer covered smoothly. "Didn't I tell you? I saw a fender-bender the other day on the way to the salon. It was a hit and run, and these gentlemen are investigating."

"No, Dearest, you didn't mention it. Was anyone hurt?" The butler appeared at the door, unobtrusively waiting to be asked to show the police out.

"Why, I don't know," looking to Munch and Fin she inquired, "Detectives?"

Fin nodded. "Yes, sir, a father of four suffered a broken ankle, broken bones and torn tendons in his wrist, and several more serious injuries," he stated. "There's no telling how long it will be before he can go back to work. That's why we're working late on this one. We just need your wife's statement to confirm the police report for the insurance adjustor."

"Well, surely, it can wait for business hours on Monday," Othmer said. "My wife and I have some very important guests right now."

"Actually, Darling, I was thinking of taking care of it tomorrow while you're playing squash," she informed him. "The poor man will probably need his insurance payout sooner rather than later."

"Yes, I suppose so," Randall agreed. "You can go take care of that tomorrow, but right now, let's get back to the party before Andrew decides everyone needs another cocktail and Heather gets totally sloshed. Gentlemen," he said, extending his hand for both Munch and Fin to shake, "have a good evening."

"This way, Detectives," the Othmer's servant said, and Munch and Fin had little choice but to follow.

Out in the car, Munch said, "Did you really have to threaten her like that and then insult her friends?"

"What can I say?" Fin shrugged as he started the engine and turned on the heater. "I'm not as good at being nice as you are."

"That doesn't mean you have to go out of your way to be a complete ass," Munch grumbled.

Fin gave him a sly grin and said, "No, it doesn't, but tomorrow morning, while I'm sleeping in, you can drag your skinny butt into the squad at eight, be all apologetic and sympathetic, and she'll think you're just her kind of Jew. She'll answer any question you ask if you apologize enough for my behavior."

"I could almost admire that except for one thing," Munch said.

"What's that?"

"I'm the one who has to report at eight tomorrow."

"Call the office and tell Liv what's up," Fin suggested. "I'll drop you at your place and then take the car back to the station."

Munch opened his phone and dialed.

The Stabler Residence
72-12 Castleside Street
Glen Oaks, Queens
9:12 P.M., November 19, 2005

"All right, you three, time for baths and bed," Maureen Stabler told her younger siblings as she turned off the TV shortly after nine in the evening.

"Hey!"

"I was watching that!"

"Mom!"

"She's right!" Kathy called from the kitchen, "Now go!"

Three children turned their disgruntled faces to their bleary-eyed dad who had been dozing in the recliner with his feet up until the commotion, and he just held up his hands defensively and told them. "Don't look at me that way! You know I'm not going to contradict your mother. If it were up to me you'd all still be going to bed at eight."

As she watched her younger siblings going up the stairs, Maureen moved over to her father and placed a hand on his shoulder saying, "You know, you'd probably sleep better if you went to bed, too."

He reached up and patted her small, soft hand with his larger one and said, "I know, and I will, soon."

Smiling, Maureen nodded and leaned down to give him a peck on the cheek. Then she called up the stairs, "If you three are watching TV in Kathleen's room, you'd better turn it off now. You need to get out your clothes for mass so Mom can iron them and Elizabeth, you have to do a reading journal for school on Monday. Mom said your teacher called and told her you were falling behind."

As she climbed the stairs, Elliot had to shake his head and laugh, amazed at how his oldest child had matured.

"She's something else, isn't she?" Kathy asked as she came in from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel.

"When did she become that . . . adult?" Elliot asked gesturing up the stairs with his good hand.

Kathy was quiet a moment, then replied, "When I needed her to grow up and help me with the others."

Elliot wasn't sure if he should apologize or tell her it was her own fault for abandoning him, and before he could answer, Kathy spoke again.

"She's right, you know. It's time for you to get to bed, too."

"Yeah, Kath, about that . . ." he began.

"I can sleep in the guest room," Kathy interrupted.

"Actually, that's where I've been sleeping," he told her. "Most of my stuff is in there now. Our bed . . . it was just so big and . . . empty without you. I felt lost in it, and I couldn't sleep. I sleep much better in the other room."

Kathy nodded, not sure how to reply. Finally, she just said, "Ok, that's good, I guess. Fewer stairs for you to climb anyway."

Moving over to his chair, she offered her hand to help him up.

An Ill Wind

Liv closed the last file on DeVane's old assaults and glanced at her own notes. She frowned and started circling things. After a few minutes, she turned to a blank page and started copying what she had circled. Excited, she looked around for someone to share her news with and saw that her captain was awake. Hours ago, he had fallen asleep over the rosters he was making for the stakeout at DeVane's bank, and she had closed his office door so the noise of the main room wouldn't disturb him. She had wanted to pull the shades so all of his detectives wouldn't have the chance to watch him in the glass enclosed office like some kind of sleeping animal at the zoo, but she knew invading his space that way was sure to wake him. Now, though, she felt she had really made an important discovery and she was pleased that he was available to share it with her.

She crossed the squad room and rapped on his door. When he waved her in, she entered and said without preamble, "I found something."

Cragen looked at her with interest and gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk.

"Ok, first of all, every one of the original victims said DeVane tied them up, whipped them before he raped them, and told them, 'Careless little girls must be punished,' which explains the beatings, but that's not the important part," Olivia said as she crossed the room.

"Then what is?" the captain asked, deciding not to mention the similar information in Elliot's statement.

Sitting she told him, "There's sort of a chain connecting the victims. He didn't attack them in the order he found them, but each of them led him to another. I'm sure of it."

Cragen motioned her to continue talking and said, "Explain."

Olivia came around the desk to stand beside his chair and showed him her notes.

"I figured there had to be a connection between the vic's, so I started by listing all activities they went to."

The first page she showed him was a mess of names and clubs, lessons, and after school programs covered in circles and arrows. He knew he was tired, despite the two-hour nap he had taken at his desk, and he figured that was why nothing was jumping out at him.

"I figured there had to be something they all had in common, but there wasn't, not exactly. I put the names in a different order, and look."

Olivia flipped the page and the pattern was revealed.

Samantha Henne
Girl Scout Cadet Troupe 716, Story Ave. Community Center, Bronx
Ballet class, Tip Toe Dance Studio, Bronx

Elise Neubauer
Ballet class, Tip Toe Dance Studio, Bronx
Riding lessons, Picard Hill Stables, Long Island

Karen Carmichael
Riding lessons, Picard Hill Stables, Long Island
Soccer Practice, Kantor Fields

Cecilia Rojas
Soccer Practice, Kantor Fields
Family Food Pantry Volunteer, St. Gregory's Church, Manhattan

Kelly Washington
Family Food Pantry Volunteer, St. Gregory's Church, Manhattan
Latchkey Kids, Long Island City Public Library

Muriel Faringo
Latchkey Kids, Long Island City Public Library
Piano lessons, Luther Hill Piano Studio, Woodside, Queens
Children's Choir, St. Constantine and St. Helen's Church, Woodside, Queens

Suzanne Liu
Piano lessons, Luther Hill Piano Studio, Woodside, Queens
Gymnastics, Petrov Gymnastics Club, Rego Park, Queens
Swimming lessons, Long Island City YMCA

Cragen gave Liv a half-smile and said, "That's good policework."

"Thanks. I'm surprised Elliot didn't see it. I figure I can track down Shelia Gardener's parents in the morning, see if she was involved in any of the same activities as Muriel Faringo or Suzanne Liu." Olivia moved back to the seat in front of the desk.

Cragen shook his head and Liv frowned. "Why not?"

"We both told Elliot you wouldn't be working his case," Don explained.

"I'm not," Olivia said. "I'm working the Faringo and Gardener murders."

"Don't you think that's cutting it a little fine?" the captain asked. "Look, Elliot needs to trust us, you especially, and if you start playing him like that, his trust in you is gone. You two work together too well, and I know you're close friends. You don't want to jeopardize that, do you?"

Liv sighed deeply, and her expression grew profoundly sad. "I just want to help," she said in a small, childlike voice, "Maybe I can talk to Elliot about the old cases in a few days, when he's feeling a little better. There's no indication in the file of how he discovered that DeVane was the perp."

"I think we need to hold off on troubling him with this until we have exhausted all our other options," Cragen said, "What do you have planned for tomorrow?"

"I'm starting out at the ME's office. I'm gonna pick up Warner's reports on the four attacks on the way in. Then I have some errands to run on a couple of cases I took over from Munch and Fin," Liv told him. "Munch is coming in to interview Annie O'Keefe at eight. Fin's going back to Muriel Faringo's place to have a look around since he hasn't seen the crime scene yet, but Munch thinks he's sleeping in. Huang has an early meeting in Quantico that his office didn't know about, but he plans to be back around noon. He said he'd call us for lunch orders on his way in if we didn't mind Chinese."

Nodding, the captain said, "Ok. When you get back from your errands, come see me. I think I know who you can talk to about DeVane's original crimes." He took out a sheet of paper and scribbled a short list on it. "What do you want Huang to pick up for you?"

"Mmmm. Beef and broccoli, egg roll, pork fried rice, hot and sour soup."

When Cragen raised his eyebrows at the quantity of food, she shrugged and said, "I'll take the soup and half the beef and broccoli home for dinner. Did you get the stakeout roster done?"

"Yeah, but would you look it over for me? I was half asleep when I made it, and I'm not sure it's right."

Liv took the roster and the list of shifts the other cops were supposed to be working and spent a few minutes checking one against the other. "Oops. You have Woodley scheduled when he's supposed to be in court, but . . . yep you confused him and Wooster. Just switch their names and it will work out all right."

She erased the two names and penciled them back in the proper slots. "Good to go."

"Thanks." The captain grabbed his coat stood to leave. "Did you eat yet?"

"No."

"Then let me buy you dinner."

"Well . . . " Liv looked at her watch and said, "As long as you don't tell Munch."

"What?" Cragen asked sarcastically. "You two are dating and he's jealous?"

"No, I promised him I would be in bed by ten, and at this rate I'll never make it."

The captain offered her a lopsided grin. "Don't tell me this is the first time you ever broke curfew!" he gasped in mock dismay.

"No," Liv laughed back at him, "and it won't be the last."

"Then what are you waiting for. Let's get out of here." He picked up their lunch orders and the stakeout roster, and on his way out he put one on Munch's desk and the other on Fin's with instructions to have the roster typed and distributed.

An Ill Wind

"He's down for the night," Kathy Stabler said as she plopped onto the sofa next to her eldest child, who was watching a movie on the Disney Channel.

"Good," Maureen said. "He needs his rest. Kathleen and the twins are in bed. Lizzie finished her reading journal, and I loaded the dishwasher."

"I guess that means I get to do the ironing," Kathy groused. Both of them hated ironing and they would each do every other chore they could think of just to leave that one to the other. Still, Kathy was grateful for her daughter's help. Leaning over to give Maureen a kiss on the side of her head, she said, "Thank you, Sweetie."

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"What really happened to Daddy?"

"He was just beat up really bad, Sweetie," Kathy told her, not missing a beat. She was expecting at least one of her children to ask for more details about their father's attack, and she had been thinking about her story since Liv had called to tell her what had happened.

"He's been beat up before. It never made him this scared or this sad," Maureen observed.

"Sweetheart, this time, it was different. The man who hurt him handcuffed him to the stairs so he couldn't defend himself, and a woman was killed right in front of him and he could do nothing to stop it." She had gathered that much from Olivia and from Elliot himself and figured the lie would be easier to believe, not to mention remember, if it was as close to the truth as she could make it.

"All right, Mom," Maureen said in a tone of mild frustration. "I'll drop it."

Kathy sat watching the movie and didn't know what to do. Maureen obviously didn't believe her, but if she tried too hard to convince the young woman, there would only be more questions to answer and more lies to tell. Deciding it was best to let things be as they were, she kissed her daughter's hair once more and said, "I'm going to bed. You should get some sleep, too."

"I'll be up when the movie's over."

Maureen watched as her mother padded up the stairs. Then she began flipping channels on the TV. She was almost twenty-one, and she wished her parents would start treating her as an adult. Oh, they both trusted her now, to look after herself and her sisters and brother, but they still thought she didn't know anything about anything and told her white lies all the time to save her from 'grown-up' problems. She couldn't ask her dad about what had happened. He'd die before he shared his troubles with her. Maybe she'd work on her mom more in the morning. It just depended on how things went when they got up for mass.

Author's note: Hi guys. I hate doing this, but I have to ask. I see a lot of hits but few reviews. When over 100 people read a chapter and only two have anything to say about it, I have to wonder if it is worth continuing. I love writing, but I love even more seeing what people have to say about it. I'm not looking for fawning praise. Constructive criticism is always welcome, and I enjoy reading people's predictions about what might be coming next. Thanks to those of you who have reviewed, and the rest of you, please do! Even if there is something you don't like, I can always take that into consideration in another story. I also accept anonymous reviews, so you don't even have to log in.

Ok, enough said. Thanks for reading.