Two days later
Ernie's Diner
7 AM
Lieutenant Anita Van Buren felt like crap as she walked into the comfortable little Diner. EADA Jack McCoy was sitting at a nearby booth, newspaper spread out next to the untouched plate of eggs and bacon. He looked up as she approached…
He looked…frightened… and the reason wasn't far to seek. The headlined article lying face up right next to McCoy's coffee said it all…
Exonerated Murderer Found Dead in Apartment Bedroom…
"If I wasn't guilty before, I am now…" he muttered as she took the seat directly across from him.
"No, Jack…You're not."
Van Buren spoke firmly as the waiter came to take her order.
"I'll have what he's having," she indicated the coffee, and the plate of bacon and eggs in front of McCoy.
"They all sentenced him to death," McCoy swallowed convulsively after the waiter had left. "And I went along with it."
"Because I ordered you to," she laid a gentle hand on his. "I know you're a lawyer, but, right now, you're also an…unofficial…Undercover Cop. Undercover Cops have to do all sorts of…unsavory things in the course of their jobs. They have to do drugs, they have to sleep with prostitutes. The have to break the law, they have to do everything they can, in order to catch the law-breakers.
"Did you at least manage to catch the gunman this time? Even a little trace evidence would be good!" there was more than a hint of desperation in McCoy's voice. She had had Barry Christopher put on Covert Protection as soon as McCoy had given her the word.
Fat lot of good that did…
"Sorry, Jack…" she couldn't hide the bitterness in her voice. "We almost had him. But he got away, and, again, no fingerprints, and no one saw him. Even Profaci missed him, and he must have been right on top of him. Whoever he is, he's…good."
McCoy nodded wearily.
"I'm not sure how long I'll be able to keep this up, Anita. If I goof this up…"
He shuddered, eyes squeezing shut as he pushed his plate of eggs to one side, and Van Buren couldn't blame him.
She had seen Paul Kopell's dead body…
Once.
That had been enough.
Again, she laid her hand atop McCoy's.
"We'll find the bastards," she told him.
I'm telling you, Boss. She knew. She had a Protective Detail out, keeping watch on the guy.
I'm impressed. All of that going on, and you still managed to tag the bastard.
Yeah…I'm good and all. But I'm not going to take any more assignments until you…fix the problem in your house.
Stan…
No! You've got…mice…Boss, and you know it!
Yeah…I know… It will be taken care of.
Jack McCoy still felt…out of sorts.
He'd taken part in the condemnation of a man, had spoken words that sent an assassin out to kill the man.
Now, he felt…
Unclean.
He shook himself. This wasn't the time to indulge in self-pity. He was…in enemy territory…
Enemy territory…
He was standing in Diana Hawthorne's office. Compared to his office, the place was downright opulent; with the heavy antique Mahogany desk, and the overstuffed chairs.
She had done quite well for herself after the breakup…
Not a hair out of place, and that mocking smile of hers that he knew so well…
"Very nice," he drawled as he took the office in. "Wish Manhattan paid me enough to redecorate my office."
"Please, sit, Jack," There were two other chairs, in front of her desk, and those were hardly less overstuffed than the chair at her desk.
"No…" Jack shook his head. "Don't want to get too comfortable."
He was remembering why he had broken things off with her, all those years ago. Even now, he could feel the attraction for her that he had felt then. But, even though he still felt that visceral, almost primeval attraction, there had always been something else…
This feeling of…
Revulsion.
Sometimes, as now, Diana Hawthorne made his skin crawl…
"C'mon Jack…" she handed him a tumbler full of scotch. "I don't bite."
"You don't, eh?" He sipped his scotch. His favorite brand…
"Well…" Diana drawled. "If you want me to bite…"
"Diana…please. We're not together anymore."
"What's her name, Jack? Claire? I always knew you liked them young, but…really?"
Anger briefly jolted through McCoy, and he downed his scotch.
"Claire's not a child!" he snapped. "And she's a damn sight more honest than you!"
Or me, for that matter…
"Easy, Jack…" Hawthorne held up her hands in mock surrender. "Your first time on the Death Panel is always the hardest. I threw up on my first time."
There was this…totally unexpected look of…sadness…in her eyes; and McCoy was thrown by it…
"Diana?"
"It's all right, Jack. You'll be fine."
But he wasn't…
The floor was tilting, and, quite suddenly, there were two of Diana Hawthorne standing in front of him. Vision beginning to blur, McCoy didn't feel the empty tumbler slip from suddenly numb fingers. But he knew…
My Scotch…drugged…
Abruptly, his knees buckled, and the floor came up to meet him…
McCoy couldn't move. Not even his fingers or toes. Lying on his side, he could see her stiletto heels as they walked over to her office door, and opened it; letting someone in who had apparently been waiting there all the while. Judging by the shoes, it was a man who walked in.
"Oh…Jack…"
Judge Gary Feldman…
Hands gently shifted his body. Now he was looking up at Feldman, who looked back down at him with accusing eyes.
"I trusted you, Jack," he spoke sadly, and brought out his cellphone, quick-dialed a number.
"It's me," he spoke into his phone. "That thing we talked about? I have a job for you."
Darkness began to settle upon McCoy, dragging him down. But, before the darkness claimed him, there was time for one last thought to shape itself in his mind.
I'm dead…
"Something's wrong, Adam," Claire Kincaid had just…barged right into Adam Schiff's office without even a knock on his door.
"Jack was supposed to be here so we could go over the Petrelli Case. He said he would be here at 9 PM. It's almost ten o'clock now."
Adam Schiff had to agree.
Something was wrong. Jack McCoy was one of the most punctual men he had ever known; almost obsessively so; and if he couldn't make it on time, he always called.
Always…
"Think something happened?" he reached for his office phone, dialed McCoy's cellphone.
It went straight to Voicemail.
Okay…that's not good…
He sat there, alarm tingling along his nerves. Jack McCoy's behavior these last few weeks, the fear Schiff had seen in him…the furtiveness…
He's gotten himself into something; something bad…
Schiff dialed another number, mouth gone dry. The phone rang twice, was picked up.
"Detective Rey Curtis speaking. May I help you?"