Long time no update. Apologies. I'm wrapping up my final months of college so life has been extremely busy—err, busier than usual.
This chapter's a bit lengthy. I changed some things around to shorten it and it still managed to end up long. *headdesk*
Sending love to everyone who's reviewed, favorited, added this to their alert lists, and read!
Chapter Four: Connections and Memories
"Casey, we need to talk."
"Can't right now. Busy."
Elliot frowned. She didn't exactly look 'busy'. When he barged into her office after a cursory knock, Casey was leaned into front of her personal laptop—a fist tucked under her chin and her elbows plopped lazily on her desk—deeply engrossed in whatever non-work related media that had arrested her attention in the middle of the afternoon.
He frowned at the sounds emanating from the computer's tiny speakers. "Football, in the middle of the day?"
She nodded absently, ignoring the twinge of disapproval thickening his voice. "Rafe's playing in his first game since making the JV team. He's starting since their first-string quarterback's out with a strained hamstring. They broadcast away games on a live feed for parents who can't make them."
"Who's winning?" he asked automatically.
The bottle blonde smirked up at him. "Interested, are we?"
"Meh, can't help myself," he shrugged and stuffed his fists in the pockets of his slacks. "Football fanaticism's embedded on my y chromosome—right next to alcoholism and the innate talent for police work."
She sniggered. "Midgley's up by a field goal. So," Closing her laptop, she folded her arms neatly on her surprisingly uncluttered desk and leaned forward. "What can I do for you?"
He eased himself down into one of the visitor chairs across from her and loosened his tie a bit. Reaching out, he fished out a chrome frame from the sea of photos on her desk: A much younger Rafe was flailing gracelessly in crystal blue waters of the Vineyard Sound—pushed, no doubt—while his sister grinned impishly at the camera as she leaned over the starboard side of her grandfather's speedboat. Peering into their young faces of Novak's children, Elliot remembered why he'd dropped everything at the precinct, leaving a bewildered—though annoyingly curious—Olivia behind, and hightailed it over to the courthouse.
He returned the photo to it's place. "You can explain to me why you'd let a scum bag like Conrad Burnham around your kids."
Casey straightened her spine at his cold tone. "Excuse me?" she felt the indignation swell in her throat. "Look, I don't know what Olivia told you—"
"—she told me a hell of a lot more than you…"
"Points for Detective Benson in the forthcoming department. Remember me to key her car as a reward," she rolled her eyes. "And what exactly's got your panties in a twist, Stabler? Forgive me if I don't go around talking up the rancid fruit on my very ex-fiancé's family tree. Connie's a sore spot for the Burnhams. He's not welcome in their home and when Charlie was lucid, he was ashamed of, and I quote, 'Connie's ardent lust for power and his lamentable amorality.' According to Robin, Connie's visit was a fluke and judging by the less than stellar welcome he received, I doubt his'll be a recurring presence at the Burnham asylum."
Elliot felt the wind leave his sails. "Just keep him away from those kids, Casey."
Her green eyes narrowed at the warning. "What's with the alarm bells? I know all about the special brand of upstanding citizens Connie defends. From what I gather, he's just a big-ticket mouthpiece. Unless," she tilted her head and combed his face with an assessing gaze. "You know more about the son of a bitch than I do. Okay, I'll bite—whatcha got?"
"It's not barbershop gossip, Novak. It's deep and it's nasty. I know the Feds have been looking at Burnham for a long time. I'm sure you know the name Andre Faustian…"
"Yeah, sure," she nodded. "His hands are in a shit load of pots, but nobody can touch the bastard because he's smart enough to wear gloves. He's got a long arm, too. The way I hear it he's got a stake in practically every vice festering in this city. I know he's been on the US Attorney's radar for quite some time, though they have yet to bring him up on chargers."
"Yeah, well, let's just say Connie's more than just Faustian's legal eagle. Burnham's got his head way up the guy's ass. Andre's Faustian isn't exactly known for his chummy nature, especially with people lucky enough not share chromosomes with him…"
"…yet Connie's a part of his inner circle…"
The memories came to him then, a barrage of them, dark and woeful. Images of a decades old summer flickered across his mind like an old movie reel. Suddenly, Elliot was twelve years old again, standing on his front porch, watching with the rest of his neighbors as the house directly across the street burned to the ground.
It wasn't the fire that had stayed with him for over thirty years.
It was the boy sitting on the curb.
All bedraggled inky hair and threadbare pajamas, the kid's face and bare feet were blackened with ash and dirt. He kept his eyes on the ambulance parked sloppily in the middle of the street, watching as they loaded his charred mother through the wide doors.
Elliot watched the boy eyeball the ambulance, wondering how he could stand it. As if the boy sensed his peer's question, he turned abruptly and bore his impossibly golden eyes into Elliot's blue ones.
It wasn't the pain in them that had seared those eyes into Elliot Stabler's memory. That was expected. It was the relief, the incongruous gratefulness and jollity that shook Elliot to the core.
As the flames consumed the house, the boys stared into the orange and red storm, each contemplating their definition of freedom.
"Elliot?"
Novak's thick voice yanked him out of the past. Clearing his throat, he tugged at his tie and schooled his features. "Sorry about that. It's been a long Monday."
She arched her brow incredulously. "It's barely eleven in the morning."
"Unfortunately crime doesn't take cat naps."
"Where were you just then?"
"Drop it, Novak. Just trust me on this, okay? Keep Burnham away from those kids. It's better that way."
"What aren't you telling me?"
He smirked. "A lot."
She drummed her fingers on her desk. He could see her struggling with her urge to question him further. Running her fingers through her hair, he couldn't help but smile when she conceded. "Fine, I won't question you any further—today. But," she held up a finger. "If you find out something that directly affects my kids…"
"…you'll be the first know."
"Fabulous," she re-opened her laptop. "Now get the hell outta my office."
Standing, he shrugged on his raincoat and went about his business.
He couldn't help but grin when he heard a triumphant squeal followed by a high pitched "touchdown!" from the other side of the door.
"This," Brandon Clohessy leaned against the East 42nd Street and Fifth Avenue street sign and flung an all encompassing hand in the direction of the main branch of the New York Public Library across the busy street. He fiddled with the gold buttons on his Midgley blazer, lashing Jason and Robin with his characteristic surly scowl as the cold rain pelted his bare head. "This is your idea of a lunch time adventure?"
Jason heaved an exasperated sigh and thrust his umbrella over the older boy. The last thing he wanted was Brandon blaming him for catching a cold. "You didn't have to tag along, you know."
"What—and miss what I thought was gonna be a chance to witness Birdie the Brainiac spread her wings and fly on the wild side?" he gave Robin's shoulder a light shove. "I think not. Besides, I couldn't let you little kiddies run around the big bad city without a proper chaperone, could I?"
"Yeah, because the six and nine measly months you have on us in age serves as some kind of kiddy rapist repellant," Robin deadpanned, hitting the seventh grader with a Casey-esque eye roll. "You came because Jason and I are the closest you'll ever come to having friends."
"Oh, I dunno, Robin," Jason grinned waggishly at his glowering cousin. "I think Brandon here only enjoys your company."
The twelve year old glared coldly at them. "The light's green," he grumbled and swept across the street.
Jason smirked at Brandon's retreating back and stepped off the curb. "I can just hear the wedding bells."
She looked genuinely disgusted. "I'd rather stick forks in my eyes."
The library was bursting with people when the three children pushed through the revolving doors and into the lobby. Robin scurried across the marble floor, her rolling backpack trailing behind her like a biddable dog. The boys ambled behind her, trading amused glances as she aimed her determined strut in the direction of the Periodical Room.
"Why are we here, anyway?" Brandon groused when Robin finally came to a halt. "Do you guys have a research paper due or something?"
Jason shook his head at the seventh grader and looked away. "Nope. Our language arts paper isn't due for another two weeks, right before we go on Thanksgiving break."
"...Okay? So, let's try this again: why are we here?"
Robin and Jason exchanged furtive glances. "We're just here, okay?" came Jason's ambiguous retort.
"This is about your dad, isn't it?"
A look of shock passed over the ten-year-old's face, but she steeled herself before either boy could comment. She curled her lips in contempt. "What's it to you, Clohessy?"
"Nothing," he shrugged, benignly. "When I was scrubbing beakers in the Bio lab, I over heard you ask Professor Talbert if she had any books about schizophrenia. I know about your dad so—"
"—so—what?—you gonna get a few laughs in? Maybe tell everybody at school? I wouldn't do that if I were you because Rafe would…"
"Hey!" Brandon half shouted, ending her tirade. He cringed at the sneer he earned from the librarian manning the information kiosk. "I wouldn't do that…" he paused, smiling sheepishly at the other children's incredulous glances. "Okay, I would, but not to you. I mean…ugh, listen, " he blushed at Jason's arched eyebrow. Sighing, he rested a rare supportive hand on her shoulder. "I understand what's like to be confused about your parents. Some people are meant to be parents and some aren't. Umm…either way: it's not your fault."
"Thanks Clohes—thanks Brandon," Robin nodded and cleared her throat. "Uh, I'm gonna go in now."
It had taken some serious finesse on her part, but Robin managed to convince the boys that she would be okay alone. While they were downstairs at the children's computer lab, Robin was hunched over a copy of James Canavan's award winning paper about the role of the family in Schizophrenia.
According to Canavan's research most of the families he sampled held the belief that schizophrenia marked the end of their loved one's life. One father described his son's life as a period of "mourning without end" that was only tempered by "lingering hope that one day [his son would] be returned to his former self." Even more interesting was the families' desire cover up the illness, especially if the relative was male.
How many times had Rafe tried to convince her that their father would walk back through their front door, his mind healthy as a horse? How many times had Grandma Hillary hemmed and hawed about her son's illness when the ladies from her charity guild or her women's fraternity inquired about "poor Charlie's" welfare. How many times had she, Robin, avoided talking about her father? How hard had she tried to write Charlie Burnham off? How frequently had Robin hoped, against her better wishes, that her mother would get "The Call" asking for her to come down to the city morgue to ID the body? How many times had she selfishly wished for that final jolt of closure?
Frowning, she jumped when the warm liquid plopped onto her hand.
Oh, she was crying.
Sniffing, she swiped angrily at her eyes with the soft wool of her blazer and returned to her reading. She sullenly shoved Canavan's paper aside and removed another psychology journal from the stack. No sense in whining over spilled milk.
"Human Molecular Genetics. Hmm, Oxford University, right?"
Her head snapped up at the unfamiliar, obtrusive voice. The intrusion was a tall heavyset man with graying dark curls and incisive, yet weary brown eyes. A leather binder was tucked protectively under his right arm, his trench coat draped over his left. Offering her a benign smile as sat his binder on the table, he fished around the breast pocket of his suit jacket and produced a pristine white handkerchief.
Straightening her spine and pushing her shoulders against her chair, she glared at the proffered piece of fabric. Ever since her first day at SVU, Casey Novak belabored the "stranger danger" point with her kids. She went beyond the standard "evildoers with puppies and windowless vans" conversation. Instead, she enrolled her kids in self-defense classes and "people safety" workshops. However, even after two years of karate and "awareness" classes, Robin found herself—much to her ego's chagrin—unnerved by the man's towering presence.
A knowing look washed over his face as he tucked away his handkerchief with his left hand and reached into the pocket of his trousers with his right. He pulled out an object and slid it across the table. Tucking his hands in his pockets, he rocked on the balls of his—Ferragamo?— clad feet and waited.
Robin, for her part, immediately perked up at the sight of the shield—the gold shield. Suddenly, the wariness that had arrested her vocal cords defrosted and her mind, much to her embarrassment, began working faster than her mouth. "I…umm…look Detective," she flipped open the badge and scanned the name. "Umm, Detective Goren. We weren't cutting. Honest! We're at lunch and…" she looked up at him to find the corner of his lips lifted into an amused smile. "…and you're not a truancy cop…"
"You got me," he held out a hand. "I'm Bobby."
She visibly relaxed and lightly shook the extended limb "Robin. Honestly, we aren't cutting. Our private school's on a different schedule than the district's."
"We?"
"Umm…my friends," she cringed inwardly at idea of Brandon Clohessy being anything remotely close to a 'friend'. "They're downstairs in the children's section."
"Hmm," he seemed to be more focused on her stack of periodicals than her words. "May I sit down?"
"Sure," she watched him drape his coat over his chair before he eased into it and delved hungrily into the mountain of psychological and medical journals. "So…uh…what house are you from?"
"Major case," Goren muttered absentmindedly, engrossed in the material. He flipped a few pages. "Are your parents cops?"
She shook her head. "No, but my mom's boyfriend's a detective at the one-six."
"SVU," he looked up. "You must know Detective Tutuola."
She smiled. "He's Chester's partner. So, Major Case, that's the big leagues, right? That's cool. You guys get all the high profile stuff, like serious white-collar crime and big time murder cases. The brass must really like you."
He snorted. "Something like that. Well Robin," he closed the copy of the most resent Journal of Abnormal Psychology quarterly. "I'm not one for patronizing, but this seems like pretty advanced reading for somebody your age."
She flashed him an impish smirk. "For all you know I have Turner's Syndrome."
"Doubtful, it's very rare." he eyed her seriously. "Besides, you're too tall."
She folded her arms. "Everybody knows Turner's manifests itself in lots of ways."
"I see it hasn't effected your aptitude for deflection."
She had the decency to blush. "I'm working on a project."
"For school."
"Yeah, for school."
"Most schools don't delve into behavioral and cognitive science until high school."
She frowned at him. "I guess they didn't make you a detective 'cause of your keen fashion sense."
He picked up another journal and began thumbing through it. "Why the interest in schizophrenia?"
"Why are you interested in my interest in schizophrenia?"
He ignored her sarcasm. Robin got the feeling he was immune to it. "It's not everyday you see an—eleven year old? —pouring over psychology and neuroscience periodicals on a rainy day."
Robin shrugged. "I'm ten and I just really like science. Plus I like understanding people."
"Especially those closest to you."
She jumped. He said it like he knew, like he knew what it was like. "Yeah," she said more to the table than to the portly detective. "I mean, I suppose."
Suddenly embarrassed, she ran the pads of her fingers over the table, tracing abstract figures into the varnished wood. When she looked up, he was scrutinizing her hands, his charcoal brows gathered in a frown. It was if her movements unnerved him. She immediately tucked her hands in her lap.
She decided to fill the uncomfortable silence. "None of the books tell you how to deal with the people. I mean, they talk about the patients, but only in a medical way. They discuss proper way to handle the person," she looked him up and down. "You look like you know your way around a library. Do you know of any books or articles that explain how to see the person and not the disorder?"
His smile looked understanding, yet mournful and resigned. "Books don't always have the answer."
She looked properly scandalized. "Excuse me?"
He chuckled. "There…aren't any official, established orthodoxies you can study and memorize, Robin. Everybody's different."
"So how do I…?"
"You can start by acknowledging the person's humanity and respecting their dignity."
She nodded soberly. "Mmkay," she looked down again. She almost reached up to draw on the table again, but she snatched her hands down when she remembered that it bothered him. She cleared her throat and averted her eyes. "Who?" she asked sotto voce.
"My mother."
Her eyes shot up, surprised that he heard her. A flash of raw pain dimmed his big eyes, but he sobered quickly. He shifted uncomfortably and began fiddling with the buttons on his navy blue jacket.
"My dad," she poked out her lip and tugged at it. "I mean, he's gone now. Not dead. At least I don't think he is. I just know he's not coming back."
"Do you…do you want him to?"
She shrugged. "I guess so. My mom and my brother say I know the disorder and not my dad. I want my real dad back so I experience what I missed out on and stuff, but that's just a fantasy. I read enough about schizophrenia to know he's not gonna be normal if he ever does comes back, so why waste my time wanting something that's not coming?"
He closed his eyes and sighed. "It's okay to hope, Robin."
"I do believe that good things will happen, Detective Goren. But don't you think it's impractical to hold onto trivial expectations?"
"Wanting to love your dad isn't trivial."
Her green eyes darkened. "Don't analyze me," she growled.
"Famous last words, kid."
Man and girl whirled to their left to find a petite blonde smirking down at them. Her golden eyes sparkled puckishly as she reached for one of the periodicals Bobby had piled in front of himself. She blinked at the subject matter, but her face betrayed nothing else.
"I figured I'd find you here," she poked him in the shoulder. She smiled conspiratorially at Robin. "He's like a kid in a candy store."
Robin grinned. "A regular Sherlock Holmes."
Eames glared benignly. "If you even mention Watson…"
A lopsided grin dimpling her chubby cheeks, Robin held up her hands in mock surrender. "Wouldn't dream of it, Detective Goren's Partner."
Eames could just hear the capital letters. She groaned. "Detective Eames is fine."
Bobby lifted one of the journals to his face to hide his small smile. "Eames, this is Robin."
"Hi," she gave a tiny wave. Her eyes widened when they caught the clock behind the woman's head. "Oh man! I gotta go!"
Bobby stopped her when she reached for the stack. "You go ahead. I'll take care of these."
She beamed shyly at him. "Thanks Detective…you know, for everything," she stood up. She couldn't help but grin when she realized she was almost as tall as Eames. "Nice to meet you Detective Eames. Bye!"
Surprisingly, Brandon and Jason were waiting for her in the lobby. Jason slung an arm over her shoulder. "Find what you were looking for?"
"Yeah, but I need to do some real research."
"I'm not coming back to this damn library," Brandon grumbled.
"I'm done here. Well, for now anyway. I need to do some...fieldwork..."
Jason furrowed his brow. "How you do plan on…"
"…don't know yet," she smirked at him. "But I will soon."
The Clohessy cousins exchanged worried glances as they followed her out of the building.
Conrad Burnham, Esq. was tilted backwards in his chair, cell phone cradled between his ear and shoulder, trying his damnedest not to jump through the speaker and throttle whining the caller on the other end of the line. Why he decided to get involved in the whole mess was completely beyond him. If he were in a pretending mood, he'd claim loyalty as his sole motivation. Somewhat true, he supposed. Loyalty notwithstanding, the real satisfaction would come from watching the ball drop.
Yes, the whole affair would prove to be of lasting significance. Thankfully, the deck appeared to be stacked in favor. Now all he had to do was gingerly play his hand. If only he could get the spoiled little bastard to stop moaning like a petulant toddler.
"I see somebody's surfing the crimson tide this month," Connie groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. He focused his eyes at the view outside room's picture windows, suddenly grateful for that his office overlooked The Hudson. "If you're absolutely sure about this, I'll care of it. No…no…you just keep your ass in park. I'll make the arrangements. All right…okay…consider it done…" he paused at the knock on his door. "Come in."
Allison, his usually level-headed assistant, was staring at him with a look that hovered between apologetic and anxious. "Mr. Burnham, there's a detective here to see you. He's rather…insistent that the two of you share words."
"Send him in," he gave her a reassuring nod and hung up his phone without some much as a goodbye. "Allison, you did nothing wrong."
A few speckles of light returned to her brown eyes and she flounced from the room, waving the mystery cop in before she returned to her station.
If Conrad Burnham was surprised to see Elliot Stabler smirking at him from the threshold of the door, he had enough finesse not to show it. Burnham's face was a wall of politeness and composure as he stood to greet the detective. He beckoned the man further into the room and politely nodded in the direction of one of the plush visitor chairs in front of the cherry wood desk.
"Please, have a seat."
Elliot tilted his head and shrugged at the chair. "I'll stand."
"As you wish," he returned to his own seat. "Would care for some coffee?"
Elliot, for his part, grinned inwardly. If that was how Burnham wanted to play it… "Aren't you gonna ask me why I'm here?"
Burnham shrugged apathetically. "Forgive me if I'm flummoxed. As far as I know, I don't have any clients beginning tried or investigated for sex crimes."
"No, you don't. Well, at least not yet. No, this," he waved a loose hand between them. "This is personal."
The attorney arched his eyebrow. "Oh?"
"Fair warning, I'm saying this once: stay away from Casey Novak's children."
The surprised look one Burnham's face was quite comical. At Elliot's barely suppressed triumphant grin, Conrad cleared his throat and whisked all emotion from his features. "You're here about my niece and nephew?" he inquired almost dubiously.
"You don't have any real relationship with those kids," Elliot shrugged, his tone evenly casual. "Keep it that way."
Connie gave a dismissive wave. "They're family."
The detective's temper jolted. "They'll be collateral damage to anybody you're stupid enough to piss off!"
Burnham tilted his head and studied Elliot for a beat, "I'm an amicable soul, Detective Stabler," he smiled affably to prove his point. "My clients tell me that my geniality has a calming effect on their moods. Be that as it may, my legal practice and my temperament aren't germane to the topic at hand. Charlie's children are perfectly safe, regardless of my involvement in their lives."
Elliot's face hardened. He released a small, humorless laugh. "You just don't get it, do you?" he laughed again. His eyes sharpened on the other man and he twisted them, trying desperately to squeeze out the reaction he knew Burnham was capable of. In a dark, frigid voice he trudged ahead. "You and I both know you're more than just a mouth piece. You're Faustian's Consigliere, if you're anything…"
"Consigliere," Burnham scoffed. "What am I, a regular Tom Fagan. Get your head outta the movies, Detective. I represent clients in need of a quality defense. I counsel them strictly in a legal context. My advice is helpful within the scope of the law. To imply that I'm some sort of mafia elder statesman, I must say, is rather offensive. Statements such as those coming from a decorated NYPD detective could be construed as slander."
Elliot folded his arms and pulled his lips back to expose two rows of perfect teeth. "The way I hear it you don't have any character left to assassinate, Connie. The Burnhams do everything in their power to distance themselves from you. Your own brother—you're schizoid, bat shit crazy brother—even he had the sense to be ashamed of—oh how'd he put it?—your 'ardent lust for power and lamentable amorality.' Guess that's Charlie speak for 'crooked, double-dealing son of a bitch.' "
Burnham's bright eyes flashed. "Watch yourself, Stabler," he swallowed, flicking off her outrage. He sized Elliot up. "Just curious, what's it to you?"
"We take care of our own," came his earnest retort.
"Yeah? So why isn't Detective Lake with you? Something tells me he'd want a piece of this dog and pony show."
Elliot was smart enough not to react at the mention of Chester. " The good 'ol Connie gut! Wow, that's never led you astray."
"Does Lake know you're encroaching on his territory?"
"I'm married man."
"I've handled enough divorce settlements to know that matrimony doesn't inhibit the male libido. Especially not in the presence of a leggy—what is she, blonde now?"
"You're keeping tabs on her?"
"Tabs has such a negative connotation, Detective," he replied silkily, relishing his victory at having got the other man's heckles up. "I like to keep Charlie's family under familial observation. Brotherly obligations and all."
"You and I both know you don't give a damn about your brother. It must kill you to know that no matter what you do, no matter how much you wallow in Rafferty and Hillary Burnham's shit and thank them for the pleasure, you'll never be enough for them. You'll never be the son they want."
It was Burnham's turn to be piqued. "You don't know anything about my family!" his voice bounced around the room before it landed in Elliot's ears.
"And you know," Elliot muffled his voice to a gelid whisper. "They're not your family!"
Connie's face stilled and smoothed itself to an unreadable expression. "That'll be all, Detective," he said tonelessly.
"Burnham…"
"Get. Out."
Elliot held up his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, I'm gone. Fair warning, if anything happens to those kids, you and I'll be getting real acquainted."
He scoffed. "That a threat, Stabler?"
"Yeah," Elliot replied smoothly. He pulled open the door. "Nice seeing you again, Connie."
Yup, Elliot and Connie have history. Oh, Goren and Eames'll definitely be peppered in. I was very upset that CI ended. This is just my version of a coping mechanism. :)
Next: Chester tries unsuccessfully to bond with Rafe. Casey and her son butt heads. Robin and the Clohessy boys decide to take a little trip without their parents' knowledge.