Title: Contraband
Chapter 4: Doin' Fine
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: Thanks for the reviews, I love them all. I'm also really glad you like the new story so much.
When you realize you've made a mistake, make amends immediately. It's easier to eat crow while it's still warm. –Dan Heist
Doin' Fine
On Monday morning, Rory was just outside the twenty-first precinct. Again. She had a cup of coffee in each hand and was trying to work up the nerve to walk in. She'd been standing there for five minutes. She'd paced back and forth briefly, but then some police personnel had arrived and she had to stop. No need to look crazy.
She had her story all ready—her excuse for her irrational outburst from Friday, it was probably even believable. She was working on her poker face. She couldn't have Tristan suspicious of the real cause of her lapse in sanity. Because that's what it was, temporary insanity. She'd swear to it on a Bible.
Finally, she took a deep breath and swallowed her pride before she walked through the door and over to Tristan's desk, and the now familiar chair next to it. She took a seat and looked at him timidly. He was reading a newspaper and didn't look away from it. He was concentrating on the article he was reading and then turned the page, giving no indication whether or not he knew he wasn't alone.
Another five minutes passed in silence, which was more time for Rory to feel anxious. After a couple more minutes, he roughly laid the paper down on his desk and rubbed his face with his hands. He took a deep breath and exhaled heavily before he finally spoke.
"What?" he asked impatiently, still not looking over at Rory.
"I brought a peace offering," she answered sheepishly.
"For what?" His voice was still toneless.
"For my conduct Friday. I was out of line," she said, staring down at the floor in shame. "You know how to do your job and don't need me looking over your shoulder."
"You're right, I don't," he agreed sullenly. He glanced over at her and she continued.
"I just got used to you telling me everything about the case and you never told me what you found out when you questioned Steinberg's daughter," she lied—well, sort of. "And I knew you were going to question her beforehand. But, I didn't know why you decided to look into his brother until after you arrested him. I did feel out of the loop."
"I never promised full disclosure," Tristan said, still glowering at her a bit.
"I know, and you didn't have to tell me. I'm aware that you can't tell me everything," she went on. "I know you're a professional. And I'm sorry for assuming to have any idea what your type is," she said cautiously.
"You're right again. You don't know."
She chanced a fleeting glance at him before going on. "You've been a really good source and I don't want a different one."
One of the corners of his mouth turned up dourly. "Are you trying to use flattery to get back into my good graces?"
She turned her head to look at him. "Is it working?"
"It isn't hurting."
She grinned a little. "You're probably the best cop I've come across in all of New York City," she said, though she had trouble keeping a straight face and ended up smiling more. "And I've been doing this for a few years, so that's saying something."
He couldn't help but raise a brow and smirk a bit. "Well, that's why I'm here now, they wanted the best."
"Really? I thought it might be because it's closer to headquarters. So they can keep an eye on you," she teased.
He tilted his head. "That could be the reason, too."
"So, will you accept my apology and continue to be my police source?" she asked hopefully and raised a brow.
He looked at her pensively. She was worried he could see through her. He sighed heavily again, as though he wasn't entirely sure whether or not it was a good idea. "All right," he finally complied.
She smiled at him again and handed over the second cup of coffee.
He took a drink and then remembered something not entirely pleasing. "Aren't you going to go wait for Mark?" He nodded at the desk across from his own.
"Who?" she asked, brows furrowed.
Tristan looked at her like she was crazy. "Stevenson—your boyfriend," he stated incredulously.
"I don't have a boyfriend," she said quickly—and firmly.
He narrowed his eyes and searched her face. He decided he was smart enough not to dispute. "You did know his first name, right?" he asked with his brows knit.
"Of course I did," she said quickly.
"I wish you weren't such a liar," he said, shaking his head.
"I did know! I'm just not used to hearing you call him by his first name. He wrote it on a piece of paper with his phone number."
"You didn't save the number to your contact list?" he asked suspiciously.
"No, I don't need it."
Tristan was pleased with the statement, not that he changed his expression at all. "Did he not show you a good time?"
Rory considered getting snooty and retorting that it wasn't his business, but what the hell? "Oh, dinner was . . . fine," she said with a shrug. "I mean, we didn't have much to talk about. He didn't want to talk about the case with me, because I'm a reporter. And, well, you know where I rank as far as that goes. We just don't have much in common. He kept mentioning twelve something, but I couldn't figure out what it was. It didn't have anything to do with drummers drumming or partridges, but it was big," Rory said pensively, shaking her head.
Tristan grinned a little. "The Big Twelve, perhaps?"
"That sounds right. What is it?"
"It's a college conference. It's about sports," he explained. "While Harvard and Yale are not in it, the University of Kansas is. Stevenson is a Jayhawk."
"Oh, I think that might have come up. What's a Jayhawk? It sounds like some kind of weird bird."
"It's Kansas's mascot. It has to do with Bleeding Kansas—before the Civil War. You're going to have to clear out your lunch schedule for the next few months if I'm going to teach you all there is to know about college sports and mascots."
"Well fine, but I don't want to talk about just sports," she said.
He furrowed his brows briefly, surprised by her problem being the subject rather than the idea of lunch. But he recovered in an instant. "So did he bore you with sports all night, then?"
"Mostly. I asked him what he likes to read, but he only likes—"
"Stephen King novels," Tristan said, finishing her sentence.
Rory pointed at him. "Yes, not that there's anything wrong with that, I've read some. But I have a larger interest pool."
"And what is in your repertoire these days?" he asked, glancing at her purse. "It doesn't look like you can fit many books in there—if any."
She grinned and pulled out her phone. "Au contraire," she said. She touched the screen a few times and handed it over.
He looked at the screen and scrolled down, viewing all the books she had on it. He smiled slowly. "Ah, I see. You don't have to keep a book on hand. You have your entire library with you at all times."
She cringed guiltily. "Actually, that's not my whole library. I still like to keep and buy the real thing. And, okay, there are some books I have on there and I have the hard copy."
Tristan shook his head and continued to smile. "You haven't changed at all," he commented.
"I've changed some," she disagreed before she took her phone from him and put it back in her purse.
"Well, then, what are you reading now?" he asked again.
"Several things."
"Naturally."
"Well, I'm reading some fiction by Russian authors," she said before she snuck a peak at him as she closed her purse and with a sly half smile, she continued. "As far as non-fiction goes, I've been reading American Lion, a biography about—"
"Andrew Jackson," Tristan finished, with interest.
"Yes. Have you read it?"
"Yeah, a few years ago, when it was written. Andrew Jackson was a badass."
"Well, sure. How many other presidents have ever been in a duel?"
"None. You know, some people call him King Andrew, because he considered the presidency as being voted king," Tristan explained.
"Yeah, he was pretty cool."
"No arguments here."
"Is he your favorite president?" she asked.
"I don't have any problems with my twenty dollar bills, but he might be tied with Theodore Roosevelt."
"That's kind of a cliché, isn't it?"
"Only if he's your favorite because of something silly, like the story about the bear he didn't kill."
"That's true. Teddy wasn't even his nickname."
"I know," Tristan agreed with a grin. "It was only people like you who called him that."
"People like me?" she asked with a smile.
"Yup, the media."
"Fine. So what's your good reason, then?"
"Well, he was a commissioner of the New York Police Department, for starters. Plus, he was the Trust Buster. He was a Republican—"
"But his party didn't really like him," Rory finished as she continued to smile. "I know. That's why he was vice president, because they thought they were getting him—"
"Out of the way, where he wouldn't do any damage," he finished, getting into it. "They don't make politicians like him any more. And do you know where he went to college?"
"Gee, I don't know, was it the third best school in the country?" she asked.
He looked pained and mouthed the word 'third' with a questioning expression. "Don't tell me Princeton is second?" he asked as though the word tasted bad.
"Well, yeah—for the sake of the rivalry."
He shook his head, offended. "You know, T.R. isn't the only great president who went to Harvard. Franklin Roosevelt did, too. That's both Roosevelt's. I think that really says something about Harvard's superiority."
"Gerald Ford and Bill Clinton went to Yale."
"How are they better?" he asked with furrowed brows. "Both Adams' went to Harvard. And I think you're forgetting a couple of your fellow Yalies who've gone on to live at Sixteen Hundred Pennsylvania Avenue."
"Who?" she asked innocently.
"They're pretty recent. George Bush—junior and senior."
"Hey, Junior got an MBA from Harvard. I'll claim him when you do."
Tristan smirked and shook his head. "Pass."
"You can't pass."
"I just did!" he said with a smile as Mark entered the precinct. "Hey, Buddy," he said in greeting.
"Hey," Mark nodded. He looked at Rory. "Could I talk to you for a minute?" he asked, jerking his head toward the hallway.
"Sure," she answered.
He had already headed towards the hall as Tristan leaned in closer to Rory. "Let him down easy," he said in a loud whisper. "I still have to work with him all day."
"Okay, but I think he'll survive," she said before she stood and walked out of the precinct.
She proceeded to listen to why she and Mark would not be going to dinner again before she went back to the seat next to Tristan's desk. He was drinking the last of his coffee when he looked at her. Mark had gone to the captain's office, so they were still relatively alone.
"What's wrong? You look . . . surprised? Or is that look incredulous?"
"I'm both, but add offended."
"Why?"
"He said he can't get past the fact that I'm a reporter. He thinks we're all—"
"Parasites?"
"Basically. He didn't even let me tell him we should just be friends. In fact, he probably doesn't want to be."
"Tough break. That doesn't make you want him more, does it?" Tristan asked.
"No," she retorted.
"That's good. You're stronger than I am," he said before looking at his watch. "It's eight o'clock. Do you need to be at work?"
"Not necessarily, I can be working now. Has Roman said anything yet?"
"Nope," Tristan answered with a shake of his head. "He's still pleading the Fifth."
"Did you know he hasn't been speaking to his mother and Daniel—since the land thing?"
"No. I just knew he was upset about it."
"Well, he wasn't talking to them. And the sisters aren't speaking to each other either, because of something Becky told their mother."
"What did she tell her?"
"Oh, they had a meeting about the land purchase. Becky thought their mother should be there, Dana disagreed, Becky told their mom what Dana said," Rory explained. "Your basic 'she said-she said'."
"What a fun bunch," Tristan commented wryly.
"Yeah, I think The Ramones wrote We're a Happy Family about them," Rory agreed. "They all have their panties in a twist over this. Did you ever find out if Daniel and Ann paid his mother full price for the land?"
"We did find out, and they did not. But I don't know how that's supposed to help us. We don't have any evidence indicating he was going to sell it for a larger profit. And again, I don't know if it would help if he was."
"I suppose it's just an interesting side note at this point. Hey, didn't Dana say Roman was at work last Monday morning?"
"Yes. And he was. But he usually gets there at eight. Monday he wasn't there until eight forty-five."
"But he won't say where he was?"
"Nope."
"Well, he's not coming off as innocent," she observed.
Tristan nodded in agreement. "Yeah, but he's innocent until proven guilty. And we haven't proven anything yet."
"Maybe you should talk with Dana some more," Rory suggested. "If he did do it, maybe she was a co-conspirator."
"Could be. We searched his house Saturday and didn't find anything. We're going to go back to look in his office this morning."
"And?
"And what?"
"Who are you going to talk to while you're there?"
Tristan considered her a moment. "Who is Dana Johnson, for four hundred, Alex?"
Rory nodded in approval. "Correct. Did Roman's wife know where he was last Monday?"
"She goes to the gym every morning when he leaves for work. She said he may have taken their younger son to school. But the school starts around eight, plus it's on Roman's way to work. So even if he did, it wouldn't have taken him until eight forty-five. Sarah doesn't have to say anything incriminating against her husband, anyway."
"Remind me to get married before I start killing people."
"Sure thing," Tristan agreed as Mark walked back to his desk.
"How was the rest of your weekend, DuGrey?" he asked.
"Fine. I had a date Saturday night," he answered casually.
Rory felt a stab of something, which she tried to ignore. "I didn't know you had a girlfriend," she commented, hoping to sound just as laid-back as he had.
Tristan looked at her. "I don't. It was just a date with some girl. Envious?" he asked with a cocked brow.
"Never," she lied. "It's good to know you didn't wake up all alone in your bed yesterday morning," she added, slightly scathingly.
His expression turned quizzical. "Why?"
"The obvious reason," she answered, just a little perturbed.
"Well, sure. But why would I wake up in my bed?"
"Because you just said—"
"No, you just said. But either way, that would imply that I brought a woman to my place. Then she'd be there the next day. If I go to her place, I can leave whenever I want."
"Charming," she said sarcastically, her eyes narrowed. He merely shrugged in nonchalance. "I should go. I don't want to get in the way of your locker room talk," she said in a huff as she stood up and started to walk away.
"Bye," he answered, not noticing her mood swing. When she was gone, he looked to his partner. "You know, I did wake up alone in my bed yesterday morning."
"What, no date?"
"Oh, I did. But it ended earlier than usual."
"What happened?"
"I made the mistake of talking about why I was in a bad mood. It had a lot to do with—"
"I know who it had a lot to do with."
"Apparently, when you're on a date, girls don't like it when you mention another girl. Even if it's in the context of an argument."
"No, I don't think they do like to hear about other women, in general. So, why did you say that stuff to her?" Mark asked as he jerked his head in the direction Rory had just walked.
Tristan shrugged. "Try to make her jealous."
"Well, congratulations. I think it worked."
But Tristan shook his head. "Nah, she's immune to my efforts. She probably thinks I'm a gigolo, anyway."
"Then why try?"
He shrugged again. "Old habits die hard."
NNNNNNNNNNNNN
An hour later, Tristan and Mark were once again at the office building where they had arrested Roman Steinberg the previous Friday.
They were in the elevator, on their way to the seventh floor, when Mark spoke. "You looked like you were in a better mood this morning when I got in. I assume you two kissed and made up?"
Tristan considered him a moment. "In a matter of speaking. She apologized and said she was upset about not knowing what happened with Steinberg's daughter when we talked to her."
"And you believed that?"
Tristan shrugged. "Sure, what other reason would she have flipped out?"
Mark shook his head and sighed. "You're right, that's probably all it was. You were a legacy at Harvard, weren't you?"
The blonde shook his head. "No, why?"
"No reason, I was just wondering," Mark answered as the doors opened and they walked over to the receptionist.
They showed her a search warrant and proceeded to the man's office. Tristan started opening up desk drawers as Mark did the same with a file cabinet. They looked for a gun first and didn't find one, but continued to look through Roman's things.
After a while, Mark held up a few photos. "Hey, look at these," he told Tristan with a frown.
"Who's that with him?" he asked, referring to the woman pictured with Roman. "She looks . . . younger than him."
"I don't know who it is. Maybe someone around here knows."
They left the office and asked around. A few employees recognized her as someone who worked in the building, but no on knew her name or what she did there. So, they went downstairs to Dana's office next.
"Do you know who this blonde woman with your brother is?" Tristan asked her, showing her one of the photos.
"I'm not sure. She looks kind of familiar, but I don't know where I've seen her."
"Is it true you haven't been speaking with your sister?" Tristan asked.
The woman looked a little surprised by his knowledge of this. "Uh, yes. How did you know that?"
"I heard from a source."
"Well, it's true. I haven't been. I haven't talked to Mom, either."
"Roman, also, hasn't been talking to your mother?"
"Yes, but we have different reasons. He's mad about the land all being sold to Daniel. After Mom had a stroke, Roman was the one who was trying to figure out if we would all inherit the property after she dies. I was never as upset about it—not that I love the situation."
"Did you know he wasn't at the office as early as he usually is last Monday?" Mark asked.
"He wasn't?"
"No, he was forty-five minutes later than usual."
"Oh, well, he doesn't exactly check in with me before going upstairs. So, what's your point?"
Tristan raised his brows at her, a bit surprised by her cavalier attitude. "So, he doesn't have an alibi and neither one of you are speaking to your mother."
"Yeah, but Mom isn't the one who's dead, is she? And just because I'm mad at my sister doesn't mean I'm going to kill her. I didn't have anything to do with Daniel's murder and I don't think Roman did, either."
"Well, until he tells us where he was last Monday, we're keeping him in custody," Mark told her before they left the office.
NNNNNNNNNNNNNN
Later that morning, both detectives were sitting at a table across from Roman Steinberg in an interrogation room.
"We were looking at some of your bank statements today," Mark said in a conversational tone, "and we noticed that you're a little short on funds—which is kind of a motive to kill your brother, what with him buying your inheritance. And since you can't tell us where you were a week ago before you went to work, things aren't looking great for you."
Roman did not respond. He just glowered at the two men across from him.
"You know, Stevenson," Tristan said casually. "I wonder if he could tell us who the woman in those photos is. You know, the ones we found in his office this morning."
"You're right," Mark agreed pleasantly. "We've been trying to figure it out all morning." He placed one of the pictures in front of their suspect.
Roman glanced at it, but still didn't speak.
"If he can't tell us who she is, I wonder if his wife would know," Tristan pondered out loud.
"I've been wondering that, too," Mark added. "Maybe we should just go ask her."
"No!" Roman finally said.
The detectives looked back at him with raised brows. "Who is she?"
The man hesitated before answering. "She works in the same office building where I work."
"That's what some of your co-workers said." Roman paled slightly. "So, did she help you kill your brother?"
"What? No!"
"You were pissed at him about buying the land from your mom, right?"
"Yeah, after she had a stroke I was worried about the land going into probate—after she dies. I wanted to know if she'd ever updated her will after the early nineties. Then Daniel bought the land. But that doesn't mean I'd kill him over it."
"Were you with anyone last week when he was killed?"
Roman hesitated again. "Yes. I was with her," he answered, nodding at the woman in the photo. "We were meeting about . . . business."
"I'm not so sure about that," Tristan said doubtfully. "But that isn't really any of our business. Do you have a name and a phone number for her? We need to give her a call."
Roman grudgingly took the paper Mark offered him and wrote down the information. The detectives stood up and exited the room.
NNNNNNNNNNNNNN
Rory was at the precinct late that afternoon. It was almost quitting time, but James wanted to know if Roman had been charged with anything yet and the A.D.A. was once again out of his office. He was talking with a couple detectives over in the corner of the precinct, so Rory was waiting. She would have sat next to Tristan while she waited, but she was still mad at herself for feeling resentful earlier that morning.
Plus, Ann Steinberg was there, speaking with Tristan. Rory watched pensively as he listened to the woman patiently. He patted her shoulder, consolingly and looked like he was speaking to her soothingly. Oh great, Rory thought, now he's showing empathy for another human being. That's just what she needed.
She turned away and started to berate herself. "No. It's not possible. It's Tristan," she said emphatically. "It's just because he looks good in those dark shirts he keeps wearing. It would be crazy—I would have to be crazy. I am not crazy," she muttered, shaking her head vigorously.
"Actually," Mark started, he had just walked up to her from behind, "you do sound a little crazy, talking to yourself out here."
She looked up at him quickly. "You scared me."
"Oh, sorry. You know, I have a theory."
She looked at him in surprise. "About the case?"
"Oh, well, at the moment I wish I did. But I was talking about him," he said, nodding at his partner.
Rory glanced back over at Tristan just in time to see him pull a box of tissues out of his bottom desk drawer and hand them over to the woman, who had, presumably, begun to cry. The side of Rory's mouth twitched a little, as another item from his drawer was revealed. She could feel something soften and she had the sneaking suspicion that it was her opinion towards the man in front of her.
"What's the theory?" she asked Mark.
"I'm not sure if you've noticed, but he sometimes comes on a bit strong when you're around," Stevenson commented.
"I have noticed, actually."
"Well, I don't think he's insane."
"I didn't really believe his problem was mental."
"No, see, didn't Einstein say that a person, who does the same thing over and over again, expecting different results, is insane?"
"Yeah, so?"
"So, I don't think he expects different results."
"I'm not sure I'm following," Rory said with knit brows.
"He keeps coming on to you, but knows it won't do any good. He's very aware that you aren't interested. My theory is, maybe he figures he might as well have some fun—since that's all he's going to get. It's not really like he has anything to lose."
"Oh," she said, feeling a little bad, or was it disappointment? "Do you have a suggestion for getting him to stop?"
The man shrugged. "Be the change you want to see."
"You've switched to Gandhi."
"Yeah."
"So, what? To get him to behave, I have to change? Am I supposed to actas if I like him to get him to stop aggravating me?" she asked dubiously.
"As the impartial third wheel and eye witness to the show you put on Friday," he started, Rory cringed. "I'd say you're doing a bang up job so far." He was about to walk away, when he added, "If it makes you feel any better, I'd be beating myself up, too, if I had to come to terms with having feelings for DuGrey. And only partly because I'm not into dudes."
Rory bit her bottom lip and knit her brows as he walked over to his desk. She looked back over at Tristan and sighed heavily, in hopeless resignation. A few minutes later, Tristan escorted Ann out of the precinct. He nodded at Rory as he passed her. After the woman was on the elevator, he walked back over to Rory.
"You're back," he observed.
"Yeah. Is there some way Jacobs could leave you guys alone down here and just stay in his office for a while? I'm getting tired of chasing him down."
"I wish there was a way."
"Doesn't he have a cell phone or a pager so people can get a hold of him when he isn't upstairs?"
"Probably, but do you think he'd answer it if he knew it was you?" he asked.
"Why does everyone have a problem with me being a reporter?"
"Don't take it personally."
"You know, you said that before, but how can I not take it personally? A person's job is basically who they are. I am a journalist. You are a cop and I accept that it's who you are."
He looked at her seriously. "Thank you," he said.
"For what?"
"Acceptance. And I don't mind who you are, either."
"Oh, thanks. Do some people have a problem with what you do?"
He tilted his head and opened his mouth to answer, when the red headed prosecutor exited the precinct. He stopped short when he saw Rory talking with Tristan.
"Are you here to speak with me?" Jacobs asked Rory. He gave the detective an annoyed look.
"Yes. I just need to check on Roman Steinberg and whether or not he's been charged with anything yet."
Jacobs snorted a bit scornfully. "I'll actually let Watson, here, field that one," he said smugly before he walked off.
"What's his problem?" she asked after the prosecutor had disappeared into the stairwell. "He just referred to you as the less intelligent sidekick."
Tristan shrugged. "He probably has several problems. The first being the stick lodged up his ass."
Rory laughed lightly before continuing. "Well, what happened today?"
He jerked his head towards his desk. "I'll show you."
She followed and sat next to his desk. He laid a photo in front of her.
"Who's the blonde with Roman?"
"That's what we asked ourselves today. The answer is, not his wife."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean she is Roman's alibi and the reason he didn't want to speak up before today. He was with her last Monday morning before work—having a cozy little breakfast. And she isn't his wife," he stressed.
"Oh," Rory said in understanding.
"Yup. He used a debit card at the restaurant they were at, confirming they were there when his brother was shot. Therefore, we had to let him go."
"So let's see, I was right about there being dissidence in the family because of Daniel buying all their inheritance. And I was right about a man straying."
"But you were wrong about the inheritance being the motive and also wrong about which man strayed."
"So, I was a little off, I was still close."
"Tell yourself whatever you need to."
"Who are you going to look into now?"
He shrugged and shook his head. "I don't know," he answered before sighing in frustration. "One sister was in New Hampshire. The other was at work. The brother was with another woman. His immediate family members have alibis and or didn't know what they would be inheriting. I'm not sure where we should go next."
"In my next report, I'll leave out that the police are stumped."
He nodded. "Thanks, you're very kind."
"You're welcome, and I know. Maybe it was a random act of violence."
"That should really narrow things down for us, thanks."
"I do what I can."
He rubbed his face in his hands and sighed again. "I was really hoping it was Roman. He had no alibi, he didn't have a ton of money, and he was mad at his brother and mother for the better part of the year. He had a motive and an opportunity. Until today. I think I liked him better when he wasn't talking."
"Don't worry," Rory said comfortingly. "We'll find the real murderer."
Tristan grinned at her. "We?"
"Yes. I'm still going to solve the crime before you."
"I beg to differ. When I figure it out, it'll settle our little Harvard-Yale dispute once and for all. And Harvard will prevail."
"Tell yourself whatever you need to," she leered.
NNNNNNNNNNNNNN
NNNNNNNNNNNNNN
On Tuesday evening, Rory was standing among chaos as she scrolled down the contact list in her phone. She waited patiently to hear Tristan's voice for the first time that day.
"Hello?" he answered after a few rings.
"Tristan, I think you need to come down here," she yelled into her phone so he could hear over the noise.
"Come where? Are you at a rave?"
"No. I'm at Becky Steinberg's reception."
"Reception for what?"
"For her wedding, or elopement—whatever."
"You should have asked sooner if you needed a date. Now I have no choice but to think you're only asking me as a last resort."
"No time for jokes right now," Rory said as she moved to a quieter location so she didn't have to shout. "Listen, there's an ambulance on its way for Jason Steinberg, and I'm pretty sure it won't have its siren on."
"Why, what happened?" Tristan quickly asked, fully sobered and serious now.
"The word going around is that he fell from the terrace outside."
"What floor are you on?"
"The eighth," she answered.
"What's the address?"
"I can't remember, exactly. But it's the eighty-four hundred block of West End Avenue."
"Good enough, I'll be right there, don't move," he said before hanging up.
NNNNNNNNNNNNNN
Twenty-five minutes later, Tristan met Rory on the eighth floor. She had been waiting for him at the elevator. The civilian guests weren't allowed to use the stairs or elevator at the moment.
"Where's the terrace?" he asked her as greeting.
"This way," she answered, weaving through throngs of confused and panicked guests, leading him to a door.
There were uniformed officers there, trying to calm the crowd. The door was blocked with yellow crime scene tape. Tristan nodded at a couple of officers and addressed one of them, "Get a guest list and confirm who's here. This might be a homicide."
The uniformed officer nodded and moved away quickly. Tristan lifted the yellow tape to duck under it and he continued to hold it up, allowing Rory to follow him. They both stepped outside and walked over to the ledge. He held his hand up to stop her from coming any closer to the edge, though.
"Why can't I look?" she asked in protest.
"Because you don't want to see the sidewalk," he answered. "It's like Silence of the Lambs down there."
"Oh, well, okay then," she complied.
"Don't touch anything, either," he said before concentrating as he looked all around. "Do you know if anyone was out here with Jason when he fell?"
"No, I have no idea. I wasn't near the door when people started going crazy. I know he was sitting with his mother and sister during dinner. When everyone was finished eating, people got up and milled around the place."
"We'll have to figure out who saw him last," Tristan muttered. He looked around the ground with knit brows, but there weren't any foot prints or any other indication that anyone had been out on the terrace.
Rory watched quietly and stayed out of his way as he looked all over the area. He crossed his arms contemplatively and looked back up just as Mark walked out onto the balcony.
He looked from Tristan to Rory and back with a frown. "Please tell me you at least called me first," he stated.
"She called me," Tristan answered. He frowned and looked at Rory, realizing something for the first time. "Hey, why are you here?"
"Oh, I was talking with Becky earlier today and she suggested that I attend her reception tonight. So I could see that her family is actually functional," Rory explained.
"So much for that," Mark said dryly.
Tristan continued. "I haven't found anything helpful out here. We need to find out if anyone was with Jason when he was out here," he said authoritatively. His partner started for the door and he looked to Rory. "Are you helping to ask questions?"
"Yes."
"Then let's go," he said and put an arm around her shoulders as they moved towards the door. "You know, your being here tonight kind of makes you a suspect," he said with a grin. "I may have to arrest you. Or at the very least give you a good frisking."
"Well, if you throw me in the big house, then you have to promise to come visit me," she answered as she snaked her arm around his waist and smiled up at him sweetly.
"For the moral support?"
"No, for the conjugal visits. You'll come for those, right, if I save my one phone call?"
Tristan faltered a beat. Maybe it was two. "I . . . I think I could clear my schedule to come . . . for you—for that," he stuttered as they both dropped their arms and went through the door.
Rory was pleased that she finally caught him off guard—and that he was letting it show, even if it was brief. He gave her a partly skeptical, partly nefarious look before continuing, in an attempt to gain the upper hand. "You definitely need to be hand cuffed to something."
However, the upper hand was not his to be had that evening. They both ducked back under the yellow tape and she looked at him. "That's probably true. Let me know when you decide what that something should be," she quipped easily before leaving him standing there with his mouth open to respond, though he had no come back at the ready.
NNNNNNNNNNNNNN
An hour and a half later, the guests were gone and Rory was sitting at a table as Tristan and Mark talked with the remaining officers. When they were finished, they both walked over to the table and sat down, Tristan a seat away from Rory and Mark on the other side of the table.
"So," Tristan said with a sigh, "what did we find?" He looked to his partner.
"The other guests saw Jason eating dinner with Ann and Amy. But when they were finished eating, the ladies left the table to talk with friends and family. Some saw Sarah sitting with Jason when he was still inside."
"Yeah," Tristan agreed. "She said she was comforting him, since his dad died, and all."
"Dana said it looked like she was flirting with him," Rory added.
Tristan scrunched his face up at this. "A touch on the arm and smile might go either way. Maybe Dana inferred wrong, she was a few tables away."
"Maybe," she agreed.
Across the table, Mark continued. "Roman was with a few of his uncles when the chaos ensued. And they were by the bar, on the opposite side of the hall."
"That's true," Rory agreed, "I saw him. He seemed to be keeping as much distance from Ann's family as possible all night."
"Then why wouldn't his wife do the same?" Stevenson asked.
"Maybe she thought they could work things out," Tristan suggested.
"Maybe she knew about Roman's other woman," Rory said. "She could have been trying to get some young action of her own."
"And she thought she'd start with the guy in line to fall into some money?"
"It could happen."
They sat and thought about that for a few minutes before Tristan spoke again. "Where was Amy when Jason was outside?" he asked his partner.
"She was talking to some cousins, before excusing herself to use the restroom. She said she went to the bar to get a drink after that and then she returned to her cousins. The place started buzzing a short time later." Mark saw both Tristan and Rory looked perplexed at this, but they did not make eye contact with each other.
"Maybe he really fell," Rory suggested, hastily.
Tristan gave her a sidelong glance. "Is that why you called for me to come here, because you believed he fell?"
"No," she admitted.
"Then make up your mind. One minute you think she killed her dad, now you think her brother just fell."
"Let's go look outside again," Mark cut in, diffusing the situation before there was one.
They all stood up and walked back out to the terrace, which was still taped off. Rory watched as the two men looked around. Tristan was right next to the building, leaning over the side of the terrace. "This ledge runs along the side of the building," he commented before he took a large step up onto the ledge. He stood up with his back to the wall and took a couple cautious steps along the ledge.
Rory's eyes widened and her heart sped up. She quickly walked over to the ledge. "Are you crazy? We're eight stories up. What are you doing?"
Mark joined her at her side.
"There's a window over here. If no one was seen walking through the door, maybe someone snuck out the window. One of you needs to go back in there—see where it goes."
"I'll go," Rory said, before muttering to Stevenson, "I can't watch. Make sure he doesn't fall." She walked into the hall and looked along the wall. There weren't any windows, but the women's restroom was halfway down the banquet hall. Rory went in and half ran to the window on the opposite side of the room. She was about to open it when she remembered she wasn't supposed to touch anything. She grabbed a couple paper towels and carefully lifted the window. She stuck her head outside and saw Tristan a few steps away.
He looked down at her. "What's the verdict?"
"I'm in the women's restroom," she told him. "The window wasn't locked."
"Does it look like someone could have climbed out of it?"
She looked down, under the windowsill. "Well, there's a radiator that could probably be used as a step stool of sorts," she answered.
"Okay, I'm going back to the terrace. We'll meet you inside," he told her before starting back.
"Be careful," she said weakly enough that he didn't hear.
When the detectives returned to the hall they inspected the women's lavatory and blocked off the room with more yellow tape so the windowsill could be dusted for fingerprints in the morning. It was getting pretty late by the time they were finished.
"Well," Tristan said, "we know who was in the restroom right before the incident."
"Amy," Mark nodded.
"Do you have to arrest her tonight?" Rory asked. They both looked at her. "I mean, shouldn't you wait until it's ruled a homicide before you take preemptive action?"
"Let's wait till morning to bring her in, it's late," Mark said. "And she has a point. We should wait until we know for sure it was murder."
"You know you're agreeing with a reporter, right?" Tristan asked him. Mark just shrugged. "All right, fine. We'll leave it for tomorrow. Let's get out of here."
All three went to the elevator and tiredly entered when the doors opened. Tristan pressed the button for the first floor and turned to the other two with his arms crossed. "Who wants a ride home?" he asked them.
Rory raised her hand slowly. Tristan looked at his partner with a raised brow.
Mark shifted his eyes from Rory to Tristan. "No. I'm fine."
"Suit your self," Tristan answered. When they were outside, he led Rory down the sidewalk a few blocks to his car. They got in and he sighed heavily. "And the plot thickens."
She nodded in agreement before adding in a serious tone, "I can't believe I was in the same room as a murderer. And the victim. I'm supposed to be observant. If I'd been paying better attention, I might have seen who was outside with him."
"Don't beat yourself up. You weren't there expecting to witness a crime," he said sincerely. "And if you hadn't been there tonight, some detectives from another precinct would have come and they might not know what's going on in their family. It would have taken longer to make the connection. Not to mention the guests would have left if everyone really thought he just fell. This way, we got to question them when everything was still fresh in their minds."
"Yeah, you're right. I just feel so bad for Ann. First her husband, now her son. And tomorrow her daughter will be questioned about it."
"Yeah," Tristan agreed, looking down, guiltily.
Rory frowned and looked over at him. "What's wrong?"
"When she came by yesterday, she wasn't sure if she was going to come here tonight."
"So?"
"So, I thought it might be good for her to get out. And I told her so."
"It's not your fault her son was killed. He's a grown man, not a kid. Just because his mother was here doesn't mean he came with her. He might have attended if she was going to be here or not. Do you still go places because your parents are going there?"
"Absolutely not."
"See? Her being here had nothing to do with it. And it's not like you were the one to push him."
"I guess you're right."
"I am right. And it's my turn to mark my calendar, since you're finally acknowledging it. Now, are you ready to admit that I'm useful to have around?"
"I never said you wouldn't be useful," he said before changing the subject. "Now, where are we going?"
"To the other side of Central Park—Lexington Avenue," she answered. "That's not out of your way, is it?"
"Yes. In fact, you should probably get out and take the subway instead," he answered dryly as he pulled away from the curb.
"No, really, it's late. I'd understand—"
"Rory?" he said pointedly.
"What?"
"I'm going to Midtown. The Upper East Side isn't technically out of my way."
"Oh, okay. So, you live in Midtown, then?"
"Good job. You missed your calling, Doll Face, you should join the force."
"I don't think I could operate a gun."
He grinned. "I could help you with that."
"Well, if I ever feel the need to exercise my Second Amendment rights, you'll be the first to know."
"Excellent. I'm here to help."
"So, you've never mentioned, where did you come from?"
"Where did I come from? My mother's uterus," he answered.
"No, where were you before you were transferred to Manhattan?"
"Oh. Brooklyn."
"Good thing you came to Manhattan. It's the borough with all the good stuff."
"Oh, is it?"
"Yes. It has all the important attractions."
"Well, I'll be sure to check them out in between catching the bad guys."
"Good idea. Hey, I was wondering, did you go straight to being a detective? Or did you have to do the uniformed officer thing?"
"You don't have to be uniformed first. But you have better command of police procedure and can identify with colleagues better when you do."
"That's not answering the question."
He sighed. "Yes. For a little while—just so I could do those two things I mentioned. I figured I should do the thing right. Which means I also had to do a stint as a narc before moving on to better things."
Rory smiled. "Are there pictures?"
"Pictures of what?"
"Pictures of you in your uniform."
"That depends, are there pictures of your mug shots?"
"Only with my mother."
"Well, I'll show you mine when you show me yours. Until then, assume they don't exist."
"That's not fair. You can find mine in the system."
"Oh, that's right. I can."
"Go left up at the light," she instructed.
"Speaking of your mug shots, did you do a bank job?"
"No. My grandparents have money. And so does my dad, now. I'd ask them for money before getting that desperate. Take a right when we get to Sixty-Second Street."
"Okay. Did you," he drew out the word, thinking of another felony, "kidnap the Dean's son and hold him for ransom?"
"Did you listen to what I just said about not needing money? And it didn't have anything to do with Yale or Yale faculty."
"Oh, okay. Give me a break, I'm tired. It's been a long day."
"Did you guys find anything useful today?"
"Nope. We just went back through everything to see if we missed anything. Then we worked on a different case so we could feel better about ourselves. You found the scoop today."
"Oh man, that reminds me, what time is it?" she asked, checking the clock on the radio. It was just after eleven. "I need to send a message to my editor quick. We have until eleven thirty to get stuff in tomorrow's paper." She got her phone out and started typing a text. "Don't worry, I'm telling him the police are looking into the possibility of it being a homicide. I'll hold off on who your prime suspect is."
"I know you will," he answered earnestly. After she pressed send, she looked back up and pointed out to Tristan where he could park on the street. He looked at the building and frowned. "Are you sure you live here? It looks like a business."
"I'm sure. It's an art studio. I live upstairs, across the hall from a couple friends from college, Olivia and Lucy. Olivia runs this studio. She's having an art show tomorrow night, actually," she explained. "My grandparents own the building. They didn't want me living in some studio apartment in a bad part of town for two thousand dollars a month. The gallery is their investment. We pay them rent to live above it."
"At a family discount, I hope?"
"A little. They tried to tell me they were going to pay for my apartment, but I get money from my trust fund funneled into my checking account every month. They were the ones to set up the fund, so there's no reason they should pay for my living expenses, too. I am an adult, after all"
"You prefer to be self-sufficient, then?"
"Yes. I get it from my mom."
"Well," he said with a sigh. "I guess I should be a gentleman and walk you upstairs."
"Gentleman? Isn't it your job to protect and serve?"
He grinned at her. "No."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm very sure. While it has a nice ring to it as a motto, my only responsibility is to enforce the law. I have no legal obligation to protect any individual. There've been several court cases to prove this. Do you want me to name a few?"
"That's not necessary. And I can walk myself. I'm a big girl."
"No, no, come on," Tristan said as they removed their seat belts and got out of the car.
Rory walked to a door next to the studio and unlocked it. "We could go through the gallery, but the alarm is set and then you wouldn't be able to walk back through without me there to set it again and lock the door behind you."
"Oh, so I'd have to stay," he commented.
"Yes. And I'd hate for you to have to do the walk of shame in the morning."
"I do have a reputation to protect."
"Sure you do."
"Okay, so did you steal the Declaration of Independence?" he asked as they walked up the stairs.
"Do I look like Nicholas Cage?" she asked as an answer.
He looked down at her. "No."
"Did you really have to think about that?" He just smiled in response. "And I didn't crack the Liberty Bell, either."
"No, of course not. That happened a long time ago."
"I'd understand if you would be interested in seeing the Declaration of Independence, though—if I'd eluded federal prison and somehow managed to keep it."
"Why? Do you think I believe there's a treasure hidden somewhere?"
"No. It's just that it's an important historical document—that you would maybe want to see," she explained innocently.
He looked at her suspiciously. "What do you know?"
"I went to Yale, so lots of things."
"No. About me?"
She smiled back at him, slyly. "I don't know anything," she insisted as they walked down the hall.
"I don't believe you. Yesterday you said you were reading lots of books, but only mentioned the one about a president and today you think I'd be interested in the Declaration of Independence. I think you know something."
"I know that you are Tristan DuGrey, former Hartford socialite and delinquent, a Harvard graduate and current detective for the New York Police Department—recently transferred to Manhattan. From Brooklyn. Oh, and you live in Midtown. You've revealed snippets here and there, but that's all I know, I swear."
He knit his brows as she stopped at her apartment door. "I'm on to you," he said as he crossed his arms and leaned a shoulder on the wall as she unlocked the door.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said as she grinned and shook her head. She caught sight of his hand and frowned. His knuckles were pinkish purple from bruises and there were a few small cuts. "What happened to your hand?"
"Oh, remember that convenience store robbery slash shooting I told you about last week?" Rory nodded. "We found the guy."
"Oh, well, mazel tov."
"Thanks. It felt good to find one of the bad guys we've been looking for. You could say he resisted arrest when we got to him."
"Really?"
"Yeah. He put up a fight. So, I gave him one."
"You won't get into trouble, will you?"
"No, we were provoked. Sometimes they have to be roughed up a bit."
"Well, you should put something on your hand, so it doesn't get infected."
"It's fine. It doesn't hurt at all."
"I'm very impressed with your masculinity, but put something on it," she said sternly.
"Don't worry about me," he said, looking down at her as she opened her door.
"I'm not worrying. I'm just giving you free advice. Lucy van Pelt would have charged you a nickel."
"And yet, Lucy is probably a good person to compare you to."
"Why? She always leaned up against Schroeder's piano and he'd ignore her," Rory protested.
"Uh, am I supposed to be Schroeder in this? Lucy liked him, you know—but he was into Beethoven, not her. I was comparing myself to Charlie Brown. She'd set that football up and he'd fall for it every time. You'd think he'd learn and get tired of ending up on his ass."
"I'm not setting up a football," she said quickly. "What do you keep running towards?"
"Nothing. Are you leaning on my piano, then?" he asked, frowning and knitting his brows. "I don't get the metaphor. But it sounds kind of dirty."
"It would only sound dirty to you. And maybe my mother."
Tristan shook his head, he was getting confused. "Either way, you should be careful. It almost sounds like you're concerned about my well-being," he said.
She looked up at him, a little more serious. "I do care," she started. "A little. . . I mean, don't get too excited about it. While I wouldn't have thrown a party if you had fallen from that building tonight, it doesn't mean I'm offering to be your private nurse, or anything."
"I wasn't asking you to," he replied, shaking his head.
"Good," she said softly, gazing back at him. They looked at each other in silence for a couple beats longer than required.
"Are you going to go in?" he asked quietly, nodding at her open door. "I'd like to go home some time this decade. Or did you want a good night kiss?" he leered casually, with a half smile.
"No," she lied breathily and shook her head back and forth. She hoped she wasn't blushing as she opened the door wider.
Tristan stood up straight. "I didn't think so. Good night, Rory," he said as he turned to walk away.
She stopped before entering her apartment and looked back at him. He was getting closer to the stairs. She bit her lip in hesitation before speaking up. "Hey, Tristan," she called.
"Hmm?" he asked, stopping to turn back to her.
"You're new around here," she stated.
"What?" he asked with knit brows.
"You're new to Manhattan, I mean—we established that. You should come tomorrow night—to Olivia's art show. You can get in touch with Manhattan's art scene—if you want. I mean, if you like art. You don't have to if you're busy or if you have other plans," she started to ramble.
He cut her off before she could continue. "Sure . . . maybe," he answered.
"Okay. Well, maybe I'll see you tomorrow."
"You usually do," he said and grinned at her cheekily.
Rory felt her stomach drop when he did so. When he had disappeared down the steps she sighed in despair and entered her apartment.