Flash Point
"The past is never dead. It's not even past." ~William Faulkner
*Author's Note: And finally (finally!), after so many months of waiting...what happened in New York...or at least the beginning...also, I know that one of our readers recently celebrated a birthday (you gave an anonymous guest review, so I'm not sure which one of you it is), so let me take a moment to say bon anniversaire, ou bon anniversaire en retard, if I'm a few days late!*
November 1988. New York City, New York.
David Rossi checked his watch again and swore under his breath. He hated being late, especially on the first day of a new assignment. With one last deep breath, he entered the conference room, where the status conference was already underway.
SAC Samuel Sorenson turned to Rossi with a look of mild amusement, his voice dry as he commented, "Nice of you to join us, Agent Rossi."
"Apologies. Traffic's a bitch." David quickly took the nearest available seat, motioning for Sorenson to continue. As the older man carried on with his briefing, David took a moment to look around the room at his fellow task force members—they had all been brought in to head the investigation against Jarrod Roche, a medium-sized fish in the East Coast pond of organized crime who was apparently starting a new foray into funding terrorist activities. Across the table were three plainclothes detectives, a police chief, another dark-haired man who was obviously an agent, and few other mid-level political types (aka the ones who were merely figureheads, who would take credit for this action if it were a success). At the end of the table sat a blond man with broad shoulders and a weary expression, whom David knew was Dave Wallander from the D.C. office. Then there was a rather nondescript looking man, quiet with light brown hair, completely unassuming in a way that marked him as an analyst. Next to David sat another familiar blonde—Erin Strauss, daughter of the formidable Jameson E. Breyer, who was now reading over the briefing packet as if it were the most interesting thing she'd ever seen. He wondered what the hell she was doing here—the last time he'd seen her, she was working for Goodwin in White Collar.
This time, Erin Strauss had recognized David Rossi's handsome face whenever he entered the room (she shouldn't think that, shouldn't think he was handsome, after all, she was a married woman, she wasn't supposed to notice men the way she noticed him). When he sat down next to her, she felt an odd sensation tingling against her skin, as if she could feel the heat radiating from his body, although there were still almost two feet of open space between them. She didn't know why he made her feel so uneasy, but her mind was already quietly whispering, He's not safe, beware of this man.
Sorenson was motioning toward Dave Wallander, grabbing Erin's attention again,"What have you got for us, Wallander?"
"Right," Dave shifted in his seat, rearranging his papers. "D.C. Organized Crime has been following Roche for a while, but I think Strauss is better suited to pull this part of the briefing—she's been working on Roche's file for years now."
Suddenly, all eyes zeroed in on her, the only woman in the room, the only person under the age of thirty, and Erin Strauss felt her stomach drop. How had she ever gotten here?
She gave a curt nod, looking down at her own notes on Roche, which she'd brought with her from Philly, to D.C., now to New York. Her hands were shaking and her mouth suddenly felt dry, so she took a second to steady herself, clearing her throat as she tried to sound as professional and unaffected as possible.
"Jarrod Roche first came under Bureau scrutiny in '82—Philadelphia's White Collar Division first started investigating him for some of his business practices, then we expanded the investigation once we realized that Roche was bribing elected officials, but he successfully evaded public corruption charges three years ago. Since then, we've been able to financially link him to several organized crime rings in New York City, where he began meeting with a German national six months ago. We believe that his German partner is directly linked to several Libyan organizations, one of which may be tied to the bombing at La Belle Discotheque in Berlin two years ago."
David Rossi fought back a frown. She was sitting so close to him that he could feel her leg shaking as she gave her briefing, though she kept her arms steeled so that her hands wouldn't tremble. She'd forced her voice into a lower register (trying to sound older, more authoritative, more masculine) and for some reason, that irritated him. He didn't understand why she simply couldn't be herself, why she felt the need to hide behind nerves and bravado, as if she hadn't earned her place at this table like the rest of them.
"That's all we have so far," she admitted with an almost-sheepish smile, as if she was embarrassed by the fact that she still had more information than anyone else at the table. God, she must be one of those overachieving need-to-please golden children that the Bureau was so fond of scooping up. David suddenly decided that she wasn't the complex raging masochist that he'd believed her to be two years ago, when he'd met her for the second time in Ralph Richardson's office. She was definitely just an annoying sycophant—the thought made him stop, because he was surprised at how viciously he'd labeled her, and he wasn't sure why he had suddenly decided that he didn't like her.
Sorenson nodded in approval, "Good. So this is where we start, lady and gents. Roche is here in the city, as is his German friend. The frequency of their meetings has increased, and we need to know why and what they're about. Strauss and Wallander, you'll continue bringing in our leads from Organized Crime, and Martin, you bring in Philly's White Collar files as well."
The man who was obviously an analyst nodded at this (apparently he was Martin, David guessed). Then Sorenson motioned to the dark-haired agent across the table, "Talladeris will specifically be focusing on Roche's activities in New York City, and Rossi, I'll need you to start building a profile—if our guy's a terrorist, then we need to know exactly how he and his friends are going to react if we try to take them. And we need to know what they'll do, before they actually do something. We will continue to keep the NYPD in the loop, so that the officers will be aware of any possible threats."
The task force was dismissed and the agents went into another smaller conference room, where there were boxes stacked on the table and a dry-erase board waiting patiently in the corner, ready for what would likely be a long and trying pursuit of a budding world-class criminal.
"Wow. They got here way faster than I expected," Wallander commented, opening a box to pull out a few pages of what were obviously financial records. He spoke over his shoulder, not even bothering to look up as he instructed, "Strauss, start graphing out a timeline on the board."
The younger woman moved to the other side of the room, uncapping a marker and jotting down a few items before drawing the long horizontal line across the board. She worked quickly and quietly, and David was impressed that apparently she'd memorized most of Jarrod Roche's history, because she didn't even need Wallander's prompting as she began writing down dates and occurrences.
"What about personal details?" Rossi asked, and Strauss stopped scribbling to turn back to him.
"What kind?" She asked.
"Whatever you've got."
She thought for a moment, biting her bottom lip. Then she answered, "I think we've got a folder with his basic information—date of birth, known aliases and all known current and former addresses—"
"We're gonna need more than that."
"Oh," she suddenly remembered something. "Philadelphia's White Collar Division is sending over all of the intel they've gathered on Roche over the years. Financial records, schedules—"
"Those aren't personal details, Agent Strauss," Rossi pointed out, a little harsher than necessary.
She blinked, obviously thrown off by his tone. "Well, I understand that, Agent Rossi. However, you can still use them to find—"
"I asked for personal details," he tried to remain calm (and silently wondered why the hell he was getting upset, why she was making him so upset). "I didn't ask for bank statements or car titles or deeds or whatever else the accountants with badges dragged up. So you could have saved us some time by simply saying, 'No, we don't have any personal details.'"
Dear gods, he sounded just like her father right now, Erin thought, and his attitude inspired the same reaction that she always had to her father's displeasure—the little flip of fear in her stomach that told her to duck her head and keep moving, avoiding the fight at all costs. So she did just that, turning back to the board and continuing with her timeline. Her refusal to engage actually irritated Rossi, because he knew that she had more bite, more fire (he'd seen it, however briefly, that first time they met, in the bar at Christmas), and he hated to think that maybe that bastard Goodwin had crushed it out of her. Of course, Rossi simply told himself that it irritated him because he despised passive people.
The more Erin Strauss tried to push away whatever strange emotions were stirred up by that brief little (not even really a) clash, the more powerful they became. And her most prevalent emotion was building into anger—after years of being Goodwin's punching bag, she had finally gotten into a healthier environment under Rutherford Golden's care, and she was starting to realize that she had true worth, and that she really didn't have to take anyone's shit. So why had she let this arrogant Italian bastard push her around like a schoolyard bully?
Dave Wallander gave Rossi a slightly surprised look (Rossi normally was the charmer when it came to women, so this was a bit of a departure from his usual ways). The dark-haired man gave a shrug, and Wallander just shook his head, giving him one last pointed look (play nice, Rossi).
In an effort to dispel the tension in the room, Wallander changed the subject, "Give us a hand with these boxes, will ya?"
Rossi helped him unpack the files and binders, setting them on the sprawling conference room table which suddenly seemed much smaller as more and more stacks of papers overtook its surface. A comfortable silence reigned as the three agents focused on their respective tasks.
After a few minutes, the unassuming man from the briefing entered with yet another box. By that time, Rossi and Wallander, aka Dave and Other Dave, were cataloguing the stacks of paper from each box.
Glancing over his shoulder, Rossi acknowledged the newcomer, "Analyst Martin, right?"
"Agent." The man corrected. "But yes, Martin."
"Oh. I'm sorry. The way Sorenson spoke to you, I just assumed—"
"So much for being the master profiler." Erin couldn't stop the words from leaving her mouth, though she didn't dare turn around to see Rossi's reaction.
David heard the barb, though it had been a low, passive-aggressive aside, and he fixed his dark eyes on the square set of the blonde's shoulders, "What did you say?"
"You heard me." Internally, Erin's knees were shaking, but she kept her voice cool and strong (and silently congratulated herself for it), as she continued scribbling away on her timeline. "You wouldn't be so defensive if you hadn't."
Oh, so that's how we're going to play it. David set his mouth in a thin line.
"No harm, no foul." Martin waved away the thought, trying to ease the tension by adding with a laugh, "People confuse me for an analyst all the time. You're David Rossi, correct?"
"Correct," David tried to focus his attention on the man speaking to him, not on the caustic harpy in the corner of the room who was probably smiling smugly at her little one-upmanship. God, if there was one thing he hated more than sycophants, it was passive-aggressive pot-shot takers, cowards who didn't have the guts for direct confrontation.
He took a second to acknowledge that he was being uncharacteristically brutal today, and he wasn't sure why. Maybe it was because he hadn't had any coffee yet.
"Hey, Dave, where's the list of transactions?" Strauss turned away from the board to fix her light green eyes on Wallander, holding her dry-erase marker up like a question mark, punctuating her request.
Dear God, even the sound of her voice was annoying, David decided.
Wallander shuffled through a few stacks before he found it, "Here. Ya want me to read it to you?"
"Sure."
Wallander began reciting the items listed on the paper, and Strauss was scribbling furiously in an attempt to keep up. There was too much information and not enough timeline, but they only had one board, so she drew a line beneath the existing one and continued the timeline on the second row.
She had to bend over slightly to write at this new level, and despite his obvious dislike for her personality, David Rossi had to admit that she still had a very appealing body.
Of course, it had to be that exact moment that Strauss glanced over her shoulder to reaffirm something Wallander had said, and she caught Rossi's gaze.
The pervert didn't even have the good grace to at least pretend that he hadn't been checking out her ass. She gave a disgusted roll of her eyes, which did not go unnoticed by the object of her disdain. Then she stood to her full height again, fixing Rossi with a dead stare as she snapped the top back onto the marker with slightly more force and violence than necessary. He was pretty sure that she'd just sent him some kind of nonverbal threat, though he wasn't sure exactly what that threat was.
Dave Wallander felt like he'd fallen through the looking glass. He'd known Dave Rossi for years and had been working side-by-side with Erin Strauss for almost eight months now, and he'd never seen either of them react so viscerally to someone whom they'd just met, much less someone who hadn't actually done anything to provoke them. The change in their personalities was so out-of-character—Rossi was usually laid-back and easy-going, the charming and suave one, and Strauss was usually quiet and efficient, the shy and passive one.
Right now, they were moving around the room, occasionally glancing at one another, silently sizing each other up, like two big cats getting ready to fight to the bloody death.
They continued working in glorious silence, and finally, Rossi left to grab some coffee. It was then that Wallander noticed how Strauss' shoulders shifted, as if she was finally releasing the breath that she'd been holding ever since they'd gotten here. Suddenly, she looked smaller, more vulnerable, more fragile, and that immediately spoke to the white knight within Wallander.
"Y'okay?" He asked gently, moving closer to her side.
Her eyes remained fixed on the hallway, on David Rossi's retreating form, "I'll be fine. Just keep that man away from me."
June 2013. Quantico, Virginia.
Derek Morgan had felt many things in Erin Strauss' presence—anger, confusion, frustration, pity, even mild amusement—but he'd never felt so...awkward.
Today was Hotch's last day before his little mini-vacation, and most people in his situation would simply make it a light day—but not Aaron Hotchner. It wasn't even nine o'clock, and he'd already called a briefing to pass out the new consult case assignments, which had come in while they were in Arizona.
Currently, the only people in the room were Strauss, Rossi, Penelope, and Derek. Baby Girl was too busy tapping away at her laptop to pay attention, but Morgan had front row seats, and he couldn't believe what he was seeing.
David Rossi was looking at Erin Strauss as if he might crawl across the conference table and devour her whole. Strauss looked as if she might just meet him halfway.
To their credit, those lascivious looks disappeared the instant that the rest of the team entered. Still, his gaze couldn't help but flicker between those two, observing them as if they'd both grown a second head. Sure, he knew about them being together, but he still felt like he'd entered some strange parallel universe. He could count on one hand the number of times that Strauss and Rossi had been in the same room without acting as if they wanted to kill one another.
"I know we've all been distracted by the Replicator case," Hotch didn't waste time nor breath as he entered the room, motioning for Garcia to start passing out the new assignments before everyone had even been seated. "But these latest assignments push us to our highest number for open consultations in the past eighteen months, so we need to focus on helping local law enforcement solve these cases as quickly as possible."
Blake opened her folder to peruse the details of her newest assignment, leaning over to Reid as she murmured, "I got an arsonist. What'd you get?"
"Cold case. Child abduction and double homicide." Spencer frowned, pushing back a wayward lock of hair. "Wanna trade?"
"Are you kidding? My guy left messages behind. You know how I love word games," Alex tried to remain playful, but she realized that Spencer wasn't sharing her humor. She leaned closer, becoming serious again as she quietly asked, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," came the reply, and Alex knew that it was a lie. Still, she didn't press the matter any further. She took a moment to glance around the table—she immediately caught Erin Strauss' gaze, and she knew that the blonde had been watching the exchange between her and Spencer. There was a soft concern at the corner of Erin's green eyes, and Alex found that she wasn't irritated by Erin's silent intrusion, because she understood that the other woman was genuinely worried about Spencer Reid's well-being.
Erin offered a quick smile and looked away. Alex realized that she still hadn't taken her out for coffee—perhaps they would have time this weekend, since Hotch was away and since James was coming home to her, instead of their usual arrangement of Alex going to see him.
The brunette's thoughts were interrupted by her unit chief, who was dismissing the briefing with a terse nod of his head, "Let's see what we can do today. Since we'll be playing catch-up, unless there is a major development in a current investigation or a new case that needs immediate attention, this will be our only briefing for the day. Which means our next official briefing will be Tuesday morning."
There was a round of grins as everyone silently rejoiced at the news—they were all like kids being released on spring break, Hotch decided with a slight smile of his own. Everyone dispersed, except for Erin Strauss, who patiently waited for his attention.
"Everything alright?" He asked more out of custom than concern, because if something were truly wrong, he'd already know—Strauss was never one to hide her emotions.
"No," she gave a tiny shake of her head. "I just wanted to make sure that everything was in order before you left. Proper chain of command, all that jazz."
"Dave will be supervising while I'm gone." Hotch kept his tone meticulously neutral as he added, "I trust that won't be a problem."
There was a look of surprise in Erin's big green eyes (did Aaron Hotchner just make a joke, to her, of all people?), and then she blushed (in a way that Aaron actually thought looked adorable, which was a word he'd never used in reference to that woman).
"No, I don't think that will be a problem," she agreed, the corners of her eyes smiling at this first attempt at friendly teasing between them. This was what it meant to be loved by David Rossi—you received the friendship of the rest of the BAU in turn, a thing which she hadn't realized that she'd even truly wanted until recently, a thing which she had never thought she'd ever value or need.
Of course, it was more than just David that connected them. Theirs was a bond that had been forged over the years, but had just recently come into fruition, into something more than sheer necessity, into something more comforting, especially since their mutual shock and fright at seeing their sons' photographs just a few short weeks ago.
"Don't stay away too long," she warned, her tone dancing with amusement. She brushed past him, moving to the door as she added, "I might get too used to having him as unit chief—and I already like him more than you."
Aaron Hotchner actually laughed at the quip, and though Erin didn't turn back around, he knew that she was grinning as she exited the bullpen.
He'd teased the Ice Queen of Quantico. And she had taken it as the joke that it was meant to be. And then she had teased back.
Dear God in Heaven. Miracles really could still happen.
November 1988. New York City, New York.
Dear God in Heaven. Samuel Sorenson would have gladly given his soul to Satan, if the ruckus in his conference room would just shut the fuck up.
Of course, it was Rossi and Strauss. It was only day three of the Roche investigation, and they had been butting heads from the word go. If he didn't know any better, he would think they were an old married couple who simply enjoyed bickering.
Though the noises coming from the conference room would not be classified as bickering. Whatever the hell was going on, it was closer to nuclear warfare.
With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself from his chair, leaving his office to enter the conference room. As usual, the two gladiators were standing on either side of the table, arguing over some horribly trivial detail, Martin was at the far end of the table, head ducked down as he simply continued whatever he was doing, Talladeris was seated next to him, arms crossed over his barrel chest as he smiled wryly at the scene before him, thoroughly entertained by this latest fight. Wallander was at the dry-erase board, face skewed in an expression that bordered between exasperation and concern, and he actually had a hand outstretched, as if he felt like he might have to step in and rescue one of them from bodily harm. He'd been playing the buffer between them since day one, and it was starting to wear him down.
"Strauss! Rossi!" Sorenson's voice shattered the moment, the anger boiling just below the surface, with enough immediate violence to stop both of them. The two agents' heads whipped around at the sound, both looking like two children caught doing something they weren't supposed to be doing.
Despite his irritation at their complete inability to have a civil discussion, he had to admit that they were two of the best agents on this task force, and when they weren't trying to rip each other's heads off, they actually worked quite well together.
Which was exactly why he'd chosen them for this particular assignment.
"Got a fresh lead," he held up a scrap of paper with a name and address hurriedly scrawled across it.
Strauss and Rossi exchanged brief looks of confusion (surely he isn't wanting us to go out on a call together) before slowly walking towards him.
"You want us to take this...together?" Rossi clarified, saying the last word as if the very thought of spending another minute with Agent Strauss was distasteful.
"Yes." Sorenson nodded, barely keeping his grin in check.
Rossi looked over at Strauss, whose grey-green eyes were wide with shock and possible fear. Now it was her turn to voice her concerns, "Sir, I'm not sure that's the best idea—"
"You two could use a little bonding time," he assured her, reaching out to give them both a pat on the arm. "Now grab your guns and go."
"How do you know we won't just shoot each other?" Strauss drawled, arching her eyebrow as she gave Rossi a slow burn (because trust me, buddy, I've considered it). Talladeris gave a slight snicker and Wallander shot him a disapproving look.
Rossi gave an exasperated sigh and went back to the grab his jacket off the back of a chair, fixing Sorenson with a dark glare, which had absolutely no effect on the SAC whatsoever—Sorenson was too busy grinning like a Cheshire cat.
The two agents walked to the elevators, not even deigning to look at one another, much less speak.
"Well, there goes our entertainment for the afternoon," Talladeris feigned regret. This earned him a reprimanding look from Sorenson, which would have been much more effective if Sorenson wasn't still grinning at the quip.
Martin simply shook his head. Things were never that interesting or intense in the Philly White Collar Division, and he preferred it that way.
Sorenson returned to his own office, where his assistant Janna was waiting in the doorway, her eyes focused down the hall, at the elevators, where Strauss and Rossi were still standing side-by-side in silence.
"Why do you do that to them, Sorrie?" Janna shook her head, handing him another list of calls that needed to be returned. "You know they can't stand each other."
"Yet," he corrected her. With a soft smile, he leaned in conspiratorially, "Lemme let you in on a little secret, Janna. One day, those two names are gonna mean something in this Bureau—Rossi's already making a name for himself, and Strauss is catching up quick. They're too much alike, that's why they butt heads—"
Janna gave a slight huff of disbelief—Strauss and Rossi were as different in temperament as they were in looks, total night and day.
"No, think about it," Sorenson defended himself. "Yes, they have their differences, but the things they fight about—they fight because of the ways they're the same. They're both bullheaded as hell, both convinced they're dead-right, both too passionate about this job and this case to simply let things go, and at the end of the day, they want the same thing—for this case to end with the smallest amount of casualties and the bad guys locked away."
The younger woman considered his theory, "Alright, I'll buy that explanation. But that doesn't explain why you would intentionally send them out into the field together, knowing that they'll bicker the whole way there and back."
"Because," his grin deepened. "One day, I'm gonna get to tell horribly embarrassing stories about them, either at their funerals or their wedding."
Janna gave him an incredulous look, and he simply nodded, motioning back to the two agents who were boarding the elevator, their faces still set in stone, their body language screeching their distaste for one another. "They'll either end up together, or end up killing each other."
"They're both married. To other people."
"That doesn't mean a thing," Sorenson shook his head. "When your number comes up, you get drafted, whether you like it or not. Love doesn't differentiate between such things."
"Why, Samuel Sorenson, I never knew you were such a hopeless romantic," Janna teased, giving him a nudge with her shoulder. With a decisive nod, she decreed, "I think I'd put my money on the funeral, though."
After almost an hour of silence, Strauss and Rossi were finally able to behave civilly. They got out of the sedan, looking around at the neighborhood, pulling their jackets a little tighter as they moved onto the sidewalk. Now that they were in the field, their sense of camaraderie came out (it was too dangerous to fight when they were away from the safety of the FBI building, they had to have each other's back out here, where you and me became us against them).
Despite the fact that she was a good half-foot shorter than he was, David realized that she was still keeping perfect pace with him.
"Quite a stride you got there, Strauss," he commented in an amused tone.
"Mother always said to move with a purpose," she said, her face fixed ahead and her eyes unreadable beneath her aviator shades.
"Smart lady."
"She likes to think so." David didn't miss the edge in her tone, the hint that Erin Strauss might not have the smoothest relationship with her mother.
"Is she anything like you?"
Now the corner of Strauss' mouth curved into a sardonic smile, "If I say no, it will only further prove how much alike we actually are. But no, not in most ways—not in the ways that she wishes we were alike, if that makes sense."
He nodded in understanding. After a beat, Strauss asked, "What about you? What's your mother like?"
"Italian," he surmised, and this earned him a short, sharp laugh, one that surprised him with its volume and force. He grinned as he continued, "Always moving, always yelling, always loving and cooking and doing all those stereotypical motherly things, ya know? I'm forty-one years old, and I'm pretty sure she'd still wrap my knuckles with a wooden spoon if I ever even thought about cursing in front of her."
Strauss laughed again, shaking her head at the comic image (slightly surprised at how much older he was than she, at how a man of his age could still act so childishly at times). Then she sobered as she glanced up at the number on a brownstone up ahead, "There's our house."
No one answered the door, even after they knocked and rang the door bell several times. Erin squinted, looking around the neighborhood with a light frown.
"They don't like the police around here," she surmised.
"Nope," Rossi agreed, giving a slight sigh of irritation as he went back down the steps.
"Hey, wait," Strauss' voice stopped him, and he turned back to her.
She made a slight gesture towards a group of children across the street. He arched his eyebrow, implying that he didn't think they'd be much help.
"C'mon," she jerked her head in the children's direction. "Little eyes and little ears always witness more than they're supposed to."
He couldn't argue with that logic, so he followed her across the street, hanging back to allow her to take control of the situation—she might be a stranger, but she was a woman, and that inherently made her seem like less of a threat to the kids. Also, with her blue jeans and her frizzy blonde hair, she looked like less of a federal agent than Rossi did.
She took off her sunshades, giving the children a smile that was too bright to be disingenuous (the first smile that David Rossi had ever seen on Erin Strauss' face, and he immediately decided that she was actually pretty when she smiled).
"Hi," she waited for them to acknowledge her before she got too close.
"Who are you?" A brunette girl, who appeared to be the oldest and obviously the leader of this rag-tag group of neighborhood kids, stepped forward, and their game was temporarily halted.
"I'm Erin. Who are you?"
"Tanya."
"What a lovely name. Did you know it means fairy queen?"
David was taken aback by this random knowledge—who the hell was this woman? She obviously sensed his surprise, because she tossed him a look over her shoulder (yeah, I've got layers, buddy). He simply grinned and shook his head.
"Well, now I do," Tanya gave a slight shrug, though David could tell that she was pleased with this new information.
"I'm hoping you can help me, Tanya," Erin easily popped down into a crouching position, which actually made her shorter than Tanya (a good move, David silently congratulated her, it redistributed the feeling of power between them, made Tanya feel more at-ease, because it wasn't an adult hovering over her, but a friend on her level). She motioned back to the brownstone, "I came to see my friend, Mr. Parsons, and he doesn't seem to be home. Have you seen him today?"
Tanya shook her head, and one of her male playmates, suddenly jealous of the attention, piped up, "He left a couple of days ago. I think he was going on vacation—he took a lot of big bags with him."
"Shut up, Toby," Tanya turned around, glaring at him.
Toby realized that he'd said too much, and he ducked his head. Erin reached forward, gently placing her hand on Toby's arm, "No, no, it's alright, Toby. That was very helpful. I just really need to find my friend."
"You're not his friend," Tanya replied succinctly. "You're not from here. You're a cop."
Erin took a moment to glance back at David. Kids. They'd marked us from the moment we arrived.
"I'm not a cop," Erin corrected her, shifting slightly to pull her badge from her back pocket. "I'm an agent with the FBI. Do you know what that is?"
Tanya nodded solemnly. "You work for the government."
"I do. That's right."
"Why are you trying to arrest Mr. Parsons?" Toby was curious.
"I'm not trying to arrest him," Erin replied. "I'm trying to protect him. You see, Mr. Parsons knows things that could put a bad man away for a very long time, and that means he's in danger. Which is why I need to find him, before the bad man does."
There was a heavy beat as young minds tried to digest the meaning behind Erin's words.
"We don't know where he went," Tanya finally answered.
Erin offered one last smile. "That's OK. Tanya, Toby, thank you both for helping."
"You...you won't tell him that we helped you, will you?" Toby's voice quivered slightly, and Erin saw the same fear reflecting in Tanya's eyes as well.
"Never," she promised. She took a moment to look into their eyes, to let them see that she was being sincere. Then she rose to her feet again, offering a little wave as she moved away, "Thanks again."
Tanya gave a curt nod, suddenly looking much older and wiser.
David waited until they were across the street again before he spoke, "You shouldn't have told them that Parsons was flipping on Roche."
"Do you know why most people are so bad about talking to kids?" Erin slipped her sunshades back onto her face. "Because they don't tell them the truth. People think you need to shield kids, treat them like delicate objects. Kids are stronger than you give them credit for, Rossi, and those kids in particular. They knew who we were and what we wanted long before I said anything. And I guarantee you, living in this neighborhood, they've seen and heard way worse things than what I told them today."
He had to agree with her on that. "Still, you probably shouldn't have told them that we were trying to protect Parsons, especially since he's a suspect, not an informant, and especially since he isn't really flipping and we aren't really trying to protect him."
"And if I had simply said that we wanted to ask him a few questions, how do you think they would have interpreted that?" She didn't stop, but she checked her stride so that he was walking next to her now. "In the world they live in, asking someone a few questions has a very different connotation than our idea of simply standing at the front door and having a civil conversation."
He hummed in agreement, then he added, "They know who else is looking for Parsons."
"What?"
"The boy, Toby. He said 'you won't tell him'. Usually, when speaking of a general, unknown person, you refer to their title—the bad guy, the UNSUB, the man who left the car, you get the picture. Toby didn't say the bad guy. He used a personal pronoun, because he was already picturing a specific person."
"This is Roche's childhood stomping grounds," Erin looked around at the arched oaks and fading bricks. "Maybe he still visits, from time to time."
"Maybe," David tucked his hands in his pockets as they walked along. After a beat, he grinned again, "So, Tanya means fairy queen?"
She chuckled lightly (because she knew that he'd bring it up, eventually), "Yes. My husband...he's been reading me names and their meanings, from this baby name book. I think that he thinks it'll make me suddenly want a baby, but so far, no dice."
"You'd make a good mother," David decided. He motioned back down the street, "You're good with kids."
"That's not a good enough reason to have one," she informed him. Then she gave a slight shrug, "Besides, that was a very brief encounter—three minutes, tops. Babies are full-time and forever."
He took a moment to simply observe her, trying to catalogue the feelings flitting across her profile as they walked along, "So you don't want children."
"No." There was a slight shake of her head, an almost-regretful note in her voice.
"But your husband does."
"Yes." There was the source of the regret. The age-old battle of who-has-to-compromise.
"That sucks," he had nothing else to say, nothing that wouldn't seem too touchy-feely or too clinical or too cliché.
She gave a low hum of amusement, "Yeah, it sucks."
Deciding to change the subject to something safer, he motioned to the bodega at the corner of the street, "Coffee?"
"Sure," she shrugged, and they continued onward in comfortable silence. After they got their coffee, she waited for him to catch up to her again as they walked back to the car.
"You don't have to wait for me to walk you to the car, Strauss," he admonished her. She laughed, and he looked at her in askance.
"It has nothing to do with me waiting for you," she informed him. "If I walk ahead of you, you're just gonna be staring at my ass the whole time."
He gave her a look of utter shock, and she burst into laughter again—a big, booming cackle that didn't seem to fit her delicate structure and haughty ways.
"Oh, don't pretend," she waved away his expression. "I saw you do it."
He simply shook his head, chuckling self-consciously. In that moment, she decided that he really wasn't such a bad guy. She leaned over conspiratorially, her shoulder bumping his, "It's quite alright, Agent Rossi. I understand. It's a nice ass."
This time, he did laugh—out of surprise, out of shock, out of delight that Erin Strauss actually had a sense of humor, out of amusement at her own laugh, which was echoing with his.
Somehow, this became a moment of temporary truce between them, a slight calm in the midst of the storm—both knew that as soon as they re-entered the FBI building, they'd fall back on opposite sides of the fence again (if they even waited that long), both felt that they still didn't entirely like the other person, and both were quite alright with that.
But right now, as they were walking side-by-side and clutching their coffee, while no one was watching, they could pretend to be friends. Even if it was just pretend, it was nice.
"Any act often repeated soon forms a habit; and habit allowed, steady gains in strength. At first it may be but as a spider's web, easily broken through, but if not resisted, it soon binds us with chains of steel." ~Tyron Edwards
*Author's Note: We've only got five more chapters to go, my dears. Which makes this seem like an appropriate time to ask for some feedback. I'm currently working on a novel that follows this same format, jumping between time and place. So my questions are: was this storytelling format difficult to keep up with? Did you even keep track of the dates/years/locations? Was each section clearly defined enough for you to remember/understand where the characters were in their relationship to one another? I am not the type to beg for reviews, but I would so greatly appreciate any feedback to these questions—help a girl out, y'all! And as always, many thanks to those who have reviewed and followed and favorited so far.*