Disclaimer I own very little, especially not CSI NY.
Notes Chapter 22: THANK YOU for all previous reviews! Hope you enjoy this chapter. Please continue reviewing - I love to know what you think - welcome at any time, for any chapter, always replied to if logged. And thanks for sticking with the story! Never realised it would get this long…
Thanks to Blue Shadowdancer for information on 'All Access', to Shadow Fox and Juliette for your reviews, and to Chrysalis Escapist for extra thoughts.
Lost Letters: Chapter 22
2nd August
…I finally feel that I'm starting to belong here, you know? I've been in the city a few months and it's taken that long to get used to the streets and the noise, and the people. That's what bothered me most at first I think, so many people. You could fit the entire population back home inside just one of the midtown office blocks. I suppose it should make me feel small and insignificant, but it just makes me feel I have to make myself noticed…
………………………………...
He saw it in her hands; shaking suddenly, the photographs in them quivering. He saw it in her face; falling into rare fear, translucent pallor creeping back under her skin. He saw it in her body; tensing, shoulders suddenly rigid and her breathing quickening and catching.
There was no need to ask; Flack knew without words, and knew that Mac did too, that Stella recognised someone in the images taken from the hospital security cameras. Someone who had escaped from his grasp. Someone who had almost taken her and Danny from them.
He spoke softly, sadly, "Which one, Stell?"
The pictures creased and distorted as her grip tightened, "The one - one without the cap, in the white coat. He was the one at the scene…" She stopped and gulped in another breath, "I didn't see him at first, they must have gotten behind me…"
"Neither did we." Flack heard the unspoken in Mac's voice; recognising it bitterly. If only he had seen. But too late. Useless recriminations.
Stella continued, not letting go of the photographs, using them, he realised, to steady her hands "I was looking at my phone, next thing I know, someone had their hand on the back of my head, I hit the steering wheel…"
"Danny and I heard you shouting." Mac supplied, his eyes not leaving Stella; something in them that Flack read as a reflection of his own feelings; impotent anger at what had happened.
Stella nodded, "I heard you both, I think, something anyhow, all I was thinking was stopping them taking the evidence. Then I hit him…" Her fingernail traced the image, and she turned it to both men, "You can probably make it out, got a punch off at least, to his jaw. Then he got one back…" Almost absently, she brushed the fading mark on her forehead.
Remembering, Flack remained marble-still, and his words seemed to come from inside statue confines, rattling stones, "I wondered, hell, I wondered how he'd gotten that bruise on his jaw. Stell, I - I don't know what to say, if I'd known, had any idea. No, that's wrong, I shoulda' known, should've challenged him. Fuck. He was under my nose, and I let him go…"
"How could you have known, Don?"
But he shook away her offer of redemption, "I should've arrested him when I had the chance." It seared that he had been so close to the man, if he could even call someone a man who had nearly killed his friends, and endangered so many more. An image of Lindsay; sitting on the floor, clutching her arm; seconds and inches, that was all it would have taken; miniscule variations, life-changing and ending differences.
The man had been inches away from him, seconds apart. He had let them increase out of reach.
It was destroying Flack; worming through him leaving a venomous excavation in his heart. Only as soon as this man was caught could he begin to heal. Only when his friends were healed.
He couldn't look at either Mac or Stella, "The final line is I screwed up. But I'll get him, and the other guy, whoever he is, whatever his involvement. Your ID's all we needed, Stell. We had a match on the bullets already; same gun, and now we know, same shooter."
Flack lifted his eyes and turned to Stella with a sigh, his mind back to the last time he had been forced to interview her as a victim; different time, different place, same revulsion at what she had undergone, "I gotta ask if there's anything more you remember, anything else you can tell us from the scene?"
A look of helplessness marred Stella's expression, and the tension holding her up left her as her shoulders slumped and one of the photographs fluttered out of her fingers, "The other guy he was with… didn't see his face, only another voice shouting. Things got kind of blurry, dizzy… I remember trying to reach for my piece, that was when…" Her words faltered.
Flack with a bitumen-black cauldron curse of loathing and disgust, wished for the man in front of him right now, for what he had done to Danny and Stella.
At Stella's side, he saw Mac's fists close and then release again. Quashing violence in response to it, as he laid his open hand on Stella's back. Gentle touch, but lead in his voice, "Danny and I heard the shot, we were running..."
"It's okay, Mac…" She took another deep breath, her voice a little hoarser, but strong as she continued, "After that, not much more, until what you know I guess. Just - just flashes of things; voices, sounds, feeling that it was hot, the sun through the windscreen I think... Then - then the next thing I remember is the fire, trying to open my eyes, and trying to get out… trying… then someone…"
Flack watched warily seeing her eyes still darkly bright with tears she would not want to fall.
Mac's hand, moved to her shoulder, fingers splayed round it protectively, "Stella, if you want to stop…"
"No, I told you, I'm okay. Honestly, this - this helps, and if it can do any good. I know I wasn't the only one hurt…"
Flack did not want her to ask about Danny, because he knew he would not be able to close out the truth of how ill he was from her, so he reached convulsively for the scattered photographs and gathered them into a neat rectangle, "You told us more than enough, Stell. Wasn't even thinking you'd remember as much as you have done. I promise I'll get him, he's not slipping away from me again. We've got his details out there, you know the drill. I'll find him."
He held out his hand for the black and white image Stella still held, and she relinquished it, withdrawing her hand quickly. Not before Flack saw the network of fresh cuts across her palm, and, still visible even after more than two years, another reminder; faint white scars on her fingertips. Never erased.
Stella laced her fingers together across her stomach, and then unknotted them, looking up at Flack, "Don't take it all on yourself. And stop beating yourself up."
"When I catch him."
"You're not working on your own, Don." Mac's voice held a warning which Flack chose to put away for now; he knew what he had to do, and he doubted Mac was going to be acting any differently. He knew what he was doing, knew protocol and how to keep himself safe. He also knew he was a damn good detective. He found people. And when he found who he was looking for, then he could consider beginning to forgive himself. Until then, Don Flack was steeped in a purgatory of his own creation.
"I got to go make some calls." He forced the photographs back into the envelope, tearing the edges.
Stella nodded, not ceasing to twine and untwine her fingers compulsively, "Sure."
Mac stood, "Call me when you need me out there, Don, and keep me informed."
"As always." He was over the threshold when Stella's voice stopped him.
"Keep us informed." Her eyes were emerald sharp even in a still too-pale face.
"I will." He nodded and strode away.
………………………………...
It looked like an orderly and constrained explosion of powder grey steel and plastic. Stacks and heaps and wobbling columns of compact boxes.
They were surrounded.
Hawkes paused for a moment, trying ineffectually to pull the set-as-concrete stiffness out of his spine. He and Adam had been in the dingy basement of the Post Office Box Company for nearly three hours without even the offer of water. Criminals were served better. The generous side of Hawkes put this down to forgetfulness and the overwhelming call of business; but the realistic side blamed the sullen desk clerk who had heaved tempestuous sighs when they arrived and produced their warrant. After leading them down and down into the hottest and lowest chasms of the building, she had left them to the mountain ranges of boxes, and had not returned since.
More than two hours into the task, and Adam had been issued with orders for bottled water and a few bills. He returned magnificently with water, coffee and cookies, which he presented to Hawkes with a flourish and a grin.
"Low fat and sugar free, therefore guilt free. Tuck in, doc."
Hawkes raised an eyebrow, "You still dieting? Can't see you got any need to."
Adam shrugged and slurped at his coffee, "Yeah, well, figured I need to maybe lose a pound or two. Take care of my figure a little more, y'know."
"Uh huh, I see." And he did, considering the brief exchange between Adam and Kendall he had overheard the end of before they left.
He decided to interfere a little, whilst remaining sensitive to Adam's sensibilities, "I don't think anyone else thinks you need to lose any, people like you for who you are…"
The rising crimson stain on Adam's cheeks checked him, "I hear you, doc, but I'm sticking to the low fat."
"You got it."
They finished their refreshments, and then resumed the brain brutalisingly boring task. An endless, unvarying motion: insert key, turn, fail to open, try again.
No other options, over and over. So many times Hawkes had lost count.
"Two hundred thirteen down…"
"Say what?"
"Boxes. Not bottles of beer, though if you want me to, I could…
"I don't."
"No worries."
"You keeping count?" Hawkes stopped and regarded the younger man with a mixture of amusement and admiration; he had lost count after the first ten.
Adam shrugged, "Nothing else to do."
"How many to go?"
"Five hundred eighty two. Give or take."
"Right."
They continued, and Hawkes heard Adam muttering the numbers under his breath, it brought a small grin to his face.
At box number three hundred and one, they paused again to finish their coffee and a second cookie.
Adam, munching his with gusto, sat on the floor, his back against one of the mounds of boxes. The key twirled in his fingers, back and forth, his eyes following it. Hawkes was mesmerised, until he shook himself and was about to speak when Adam cleared his throat.
"Uh, Hawkes, y'know Sid found the key in the stomach of one of the John Does?"
"What about it?"
Round and through, the key still wove through his fingers. Adam gulped and looked uncomfortable, "He, uh, ever tell you about other, uh, things he's taken out of bodies?"
Hawkes's eyebrows rose into his hair, "Sid tell you that story? How'd he get hold of you to do that?"
The lab technician squirmed, and the last quarter of his cookie died a soggy death in his coffee, "Had to take something down to the morgue two days ago. No one else was down there, he, uh, got to talking about, stuff, y'know…"
Remembering the moment Sid's anecdote had caught up with him, after he thought he had skilfully avoided it, Hawkes grimaced in sympathy, "He tell you the whole story?"
A face suddenly the colour of uncooked dough told him before Adam answered, "Yeah. Yeah, he did. Couldn't leave, or think of an excuse fast enough."
Hawkes gave a low whistle, "Man. You get all the details?"
"Oh yeah."
He could only shake his head, "That bad huh? Tough call."
Adam nodded and shuddered, "Yeah... Guess we'd better carry on."
"Guess so."
Torturously slowly, the numbers on either side of the scale of tried and untried shifted in their favour.
Six hundred and two down, one hundred and ninety three to go.
The water level in their bottles dropped rapidly.
They took it in turns to be key turner and box mover. Hawkes was back on key duty; numb to the rhythm and robotic now; push in, turn, fail; push in, turn, fail; push in, turn… turn some more, open.
He froze. Adam was immediately alert, craning over his shoulder, "We got it?"
Hawkes licked dry lips, "I think we found our box, Adam."
………………………………...
"So, you find anything out from all those boxes the old lady had stashed away? Must be something special for the kid to have made two attempts to grab 'em."
Lindsay shook her head at Detective Markham's question, feeling a twinge of guilt that she had not been able to devote enough time to that task, "Nothing yet, but I've not looked too closely, still working my way through them. I'm sorry detective, but it's not my highest priority right now, much as I'd like it to be."
Markham gave her a look of sympathy, "Sure, I hear you."
Everyone knew. The whole of the NYPD knew what had happened, and it had canon-balled round every department; personal connections between all the detectives involved being many and far reaching.
Lindsay smiled briefly at him, "Thanks. Uh, how how's your young man?"
The question was asked before she could stop herself. It made Markham's pale features blush rose and cream, and he swivelled his tie before answering, "He's, y'know, he's good. We're doing good. Got dinner planned tonight."
She smiled again, "That's nice to know. Hope it goes well." She recalled another's words, "Take a chance."
There was curiosity in his gaze, "Yeah, yeah we're taking it. Thanks."
A pause dropped between them, until Markham picked up the conversation, "What about the kid? Reckon we take him seriously, all he's saying about his sister and the no contact?"
Their proven suspect for the burglary, was proving to be uncooperative: all they had got from him were several names, all and none of them belonging to himself. They had however been able to uncover from the layers of identity the young man had clothed himself in, that he was properly Christopher Mendes; known also to associates as Troy Dyer. They had soon disrobed him of that alias.
Held and charged for the aggravated burglary, he had been through another round of questions earlier with Lindsay as observer, and, towards the end of the interview, had suddenly exposed a little more of himself with an outburst of anxiety for the whereabouts of his sister.
Lindsay hesitated, and another hesitation eight days ago that had left a burn scar in her mind, decided her. It would be a few minutes work to check. Despite what Sid had said to her, she knew a few minutes could make a difference, to a life saved or lost.
"I think we should check it out. If he's really worried, and he seems sincere, then there might be something. Won't do any harm, and might even do some good if we can get a hold of her. She might give us some insight into little brother."
Markham nodded, "You got it. I'll get her cell number off of him, get the kid talking more maybe?"
"Let's hope so."
They parted: Markham to gather any more information he could from their perpetrator; Lindsay to continue, for a brief hour, the task of looking through the boxes of letters the old lady had entrusted to her.
As she walked back to the lab, the movement of her feet began to join to a sway of thought in her mind: boxes of letters; Rita was the old lady's neighbour; Rita wrote letters…
Things began to join up; letters into words, words into sentences; sentences into ideas and theories. Spider lines of writing rustled across paper connected to her thoughts. It was what she was good at: connecting; seeing the hidden behind the obvious; reading between the lines… Lindsay read and saw and theorised.
………………………………...
A few days had made a greater difference. Angell had not seen Zee since taking his last statement three days ago, but in that time he had changed again. A sustained diet of good food, clean clothes and sanitary living conditions had rounded his cheeks and filled out his frame until almost a different man stood waiting for her in the doorway of the safe house.
"How you doing, Zee?" She greeted him, and shook his outstretched hand.
"Yeah, good. I'm good. So what you here for this time, detective? This the last time?"
He had broached the subject she had been agonising over the whole car ride from the precinct. Honesty won out, "It's looking like it. How do you feel about that?"
Zee shoved his hands in his pockets, "Guessed it would be. I been here a while, so I figured it was time to be out of here. Time to be getting back home."
"Do you want to leave here? Thought you liked it, all the food and clothes and everything else?"
"Yeah, it's good. Nice food and clothes, best I reckon I've ever had. But it ain't me. This ain't home here."
"So where is?" Angell was having to squint at him, as a corona of light caught round his hair and blazed it into gold. She sat down on one of the couple of plastic chairs by the door, after carefully checking its pitted surface.
Zee plumped down beside her, "Where you picked me up from, where you all came to, where I looked after Stella." He shuffled his feet, took his hands out of his pockets, and then put them back, "How's she doing? She okay?"
"She's getting better."
"She still in the hospital?"
Angell replaced her sunglasses as she stared out over the parking lot. The rows of cars shone like scarab beetles in the sun, bright facets of colour as the sun bounced off them. The final day of August; Autumn's brittle white light in the sky.
"Yeah, she's going to be there a little while longer. Did you want to see her maybe?" She knew, via Flack, that Stella wanted at some point to meet the man who had saved her life.
Zee frowned, "Not in the hospital. No way, not there. Not my place, hospitals, dangerous places, people die in 'em. She can see me at my place, when she gets out of there, if she wants to."
She could, fairly confidently, answer for Stella, knowing what she knew of her, "I'm sure she will, Zee…"
Her eyes scanned the parking lot again. Nothing was out of place. And yet… Something, some small movement, something out of conscious thought made her stand, and tug a startled Zee up with her, "You know, I think we'd be better off indoors. Getting hot out here, isn't it?"
She didn't give him time to voice any protest, pushing him instead back through the doors behind her. Slamming them shut, throwing a bolt over, Angell hustled Zee along the corridor, already speaking urgently into her phone to a trusted answering voice, "Don? Listen, I'm with Zee at the safe house. Get yourself down here, and bring some back up as discreetly as possible. I think we may have unwanted company. Someone we've been looking for."
I hope you liked this chapter. Please review and let me know! All thoughts very welcome, thanks, Lily x