Title: Contraband

Chapter 5: Headspace

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Kissing is a means of getting two people so close together that they can't see anything wrong with each other. –Rene Yas

Headspace

Tristan crossed his arms in concentration and looked through the window in front of him. Stevenson was in the interrogation room, questioning Amy Steinberg. They'd brought her in that morning and had let her sit for a while. Now it was time to get her story. Tristan hit the button to the left of the window so he could hear the proceedings.

"I understand you have some credit card debt, what have you been buying that's so expensive?" Mark asked the young woman.

"You brought me down here to talk about my credit card debt?" she asked in disbelief.

"Just answer the question."

She shrugged. "I like nice clothes. That's not a crime."

"No, but needing money is a motive to commit one. And it looks like you needed some money."

"I did not kill anyone. I wasn't at that alley where my father was shot and I wasn't anywhere near the terrace when my brother fell off."

"So you think he really fell?"

"I don't know why anyone would want to push him," she answered with her palms up.

"What can you tell me about these bars you can't enter any more?"

"I had some to drink," she answered vaguely.

"It's a bar, everyone drinks at a bar. Did everyone else get banned, too?"

"No."

"Then why did you?"

"I may have had a little too much to drink."

"And?"

"And I may have gotten into an argument with another girl."

"About what?"

"I don't know. I can't remember."

"It was just an argument?"

"It may have gotten heated."

"Heated?"

"Yes."

On his side of the window, Tristan scribbled something on a piece of paper and knocked on the door. Stevenson got up to open to answer it and Tristan handed over the paper without a word.

Mark nodded and went back to the table. "I need a better description of heated," he told the blonde woman.

"Can't you just look at the police reports?"

"I can, I have them right here actually. But I'd really like to hear your side of things."

"Fine, I was arguing with this chick about something—I don't remember what—and I hit her. We got into a fight after that."

"A fight?"

"Yes."

"Is this what happened at both establishments?"

"Yes."

"Who got physical first?"

She hesitated. "Me."

"Both times?"

"Yes. What does this have to do with anything?"

"Well, if you're prone to violence, maybe that's what happened last night. Maybe you didn't mean to shove that hard, perhaps it was just an accident."

"I didn't shove anyone last night."

Tristan knocked on the door again.

Mark looked at him impatiently when he opened the door. "Do you just want to do this?"

"Sure, I'll tag in," he answered nicely. "You were doing great, though. And I'll only need a minute." The two men traded places. Tristan sat down and looked at Amy. "You say you didn't hit anyone last night, correct?"

"Right."

"You didn't give anyone a shove, either?"

"That's what I said."

"Did you have anything to drink last night?"

"Yes."

"Anything with alcohol?"

"Yes. That's not illegal, I'm over twenty-one."

"Oh, I know. That's not what I'm getting at. You were drinking at those bars, too, when you got into altercations?"

"Yeah, but they were bars—"

"And people drink at bars. I know, that's been established. So, at those bars, you were drinking and got into fights?"

"We've established that, as well," she replied in a bored voice. "You're a quick one."

"Thanks, I agree. Now, you don't remember what you were arguing about—either time—when things got heated?"

"Right again."

"You have no recollection at all?"

"No, I can't recall."

"Because you were drunk?"

"Yes."

"And you were drinking last night?" he asked again.

"I wasn't drunk."

"Yes or no."

"I didn't have that much!"

"Answer the question," he ordered.

"Yes," she answered.

"So, one might say that you could have gotten into an argument last night and wouldn't remember, since you were drinking."

"I do remember and I didn't."

"But you could have."

"No, I could not have," she insisted impatiently.

"And when things get 'heated' for you, you get physical," he continued.

"They didn't last night."

"Where were you when your brother 'fell' from the terrace?"

"I wasn't even near him. I was talking to some family members."

"The whole time? You never got up for anything?"

"I got up to go to the bathroom and then I got a drink at the open bar."

"Right," he nodded briskly as he stood up. He stepped back out of the small room and next to his partner. At some point while he had been in the room, the A.D.A. had walked over to watch. "She's all yours," Tristan told the other detective.

Stevenson stepped back into the room and the other two observed.

"When you went into the restroom, what did you do?" Mark asked Amy.

"What do you think I did?" she asked suspiciously.

"I'll ask the questions. Now I'm a man, and I only do my business when I go to the men's room. But I know women sometimes go in to . . . powder their noses, or something. So humor me, what did you do?"

"I walked in and went into a stall," she started slowly, like he was a small child. Or slow.

"Which one?"

"Are you serious?"

"As a heart attack. Which one?"

"The . . . third one from the door. I used the toilet. Do you need a number, or something?"

"No."

"Well, I did my business. Then I washed my hands and left."

"Was there anyone else in there at the same time?"

"Not when I went in, but someone walked in while I was still in the stall."

"What did that person do?"

"The same thing I did. Do you want a stall number?"

"Please."

"The second one, next to the one I was in. The side closer to the door."

"Did you see who it was?"

"No. She left before I was finished."

"So, you know it was a woman?"

"Well, it was the women's restroom, and she had on two-inch black heels, so I'm going to go with yes."

"Did you wait for her to leave before you opened the window?"

"The window? I didn't touch the window. It's October, why would I open it?"

"To get some air. Or to climb out unnoticed by the rest of the party."

"Well, I didn't—I tend to run cold—and we were on the eighth floor, where would I have climbed to? I did what I went in there for and I left. That's it."

"Did the other person open it, then, when she was in there?"

"No, she just washed her hands and left. I heard the door open and close."

"How long was it after you left the restroom that word spread about your brother?"

"About ten minutes, I guess. My aunt, Dana went in after me. She can tell you I was in there around the time my brother fell."

"That's what we're hoping."

"What does this have to do with Jason?"

"A lot. You needed money and didn't want anyone to see you walk out onto the terrace. So you snuck out the window. You argued and shoved him."

"I did not," Amy exclaimed angrily.

"If you want to confess before the results from the fingerprints come in, I can talk with the district attorney's office for you. You could get a deal."

"A deal for what? I'm not confessing to anything, because I didn't do anything."

Outside, Jacobs tilted his head towards Tristan. "Even if the fingerprints come back matching hers it doesn't mean we can charge her for murder."

"You know I'm perfectly aware of that. It's just an idea we had. None of the guests saw anyone join Jason outside, not through the door, at least. The window is just another way someone could have gotten out."

"Wouldn't that have been pretty dangerous for her to risk her life up on a ledge just so no one would see her walk outside?"

Tristan shrugged. "Perhaps not, if she really wanted her brother out of the picture. She does have a motive. Plus, I walked out on that ledge and I'm still here. But don't worry about evidence. We'll be double checking people's statements today, to make sure they have the same story. An eyewitness and or a confession would be sufficient evidence. And fingerprints would collaborate."

"I know how it works."

"I'm sure you do."

"That was some shrewd distorting of the facts you did when you were in there," Jacobs commented, nodding towards the window.

"Oh, you saw?"

"I did."

"Were you impressed?" The detective smirked.

"It's my job to do the cross-examining, you know," the prosecutor stated as his answer.

"And it's ours to think of the theories. But don't worry. I'll be watching when you get your turn. If you ever want some tips, let me know," Tristan said in a cocky tone before he left the window and went over to his desk. He took out a long list of guests' names and picked up his phone.

It was going to be a long day.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Meanwhile, in the newsroom, Rory had a list of her own, though it was much shorter. She was starting with the bride. She'd just gotten a hold of Becky.

"I feel awful about all of this," the woman explained desolately. "Jason is a good guy. He's always quiet and nice. He was the first grandchild, you know."

"I did know that. Now, I was there last night and I didn't even see him walk out to the terrace. Did you see him go out there?"

"No. I saw him sitting out there. But I didn't see when he went out."

"Did you ever see anyone out there with him?"

"No. Why?"

"Have you read the paper today, by chance?"

"I haven't. I've been really busy and distracted, why?"

"No reason. But you're sure you saw Jason out there by himself?"

"Yes. He shouldn't have been sitting on the edge like that—so dangerous."

"He was?" Rory asked quickly.

"Yes. He was just sitting there, looking lost in thought. He didn't look like he wanted to talk to anyone. I can't really blame him for that. He's been through a lot this past week."

"That's true. Thank you for talking with me today. I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you."

"Oh, and congratulations on your wedding."

"Right, thanks."

Both hung up after that. Rory looked at her list and dialed another number.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Mrs. Johnson, this is Veronica More at the Daily News, do you have some time to talk with me?"

"I guess so. About last night, I assume?"

"Yes. I understand you saw your nephew when he was still inside the banquet hall."

"Yes, I did."

"Was anyone with him?"

"After his mother and sister walked away, you mean?"

"Yes."

"I saw Roman's wife, Sarah, talking with him."

"And how would you describe their interaction?"

"Well, I thought Sarah looked pretty friendly, if you know what I mean."

"I think I do. How did Jason seem to respond to such attention?"

"He didn't look like he was into it. I saw him shake his head."

"Sarah didn't go outside with him, did she?"

"I don't know. I didn't actually see him get up. The next time I looked at that table, it was empty."

"You don't know where either of them went?"

"No."

"What were you doing when things got crazy?"

"Well, it was after I went to the restroom."

Rory perked up, but remembered not to get too eager. "Was there anyone else in the restroom when you went in?"

"No. My niece had just walked out."

"Which niece?"

"My only niece, Amy."

"She was the only who had been in there before you?"

"I guess."

Rory thought quickly. "Was it hot in the restroom?"

"Actually, no. It was really cold."

"Really? Because when I went in there earlier in the night, I thought it was really hot."

"Oh that's right, you were there last night. I forgot. Anyway, it definitely wasn't hot. Some idiot opened the window."

"Really?"

"Yes. It was all the way open, cool air was blowing in."

"Did you close it?"

"No. I was only in there for a couple minutes. I didn't care that much."

"And no one else came in while you were in there?"

"No, I was all alone. Oh, I have to go. My secretary says the police are on the other line."

"Okay, thanks for your time," Rory said before she hung up.

She sat in thought and quickly drummed her fingers on her desk in agitation. She contemplated who she should call next and picked up the phone. However, she changed her mind and sat it back down. Instead, she picked up her cell phone and quickly typed a text. She sent it to Tristan and picked her office phone back up without waiting for him to respond. She dialed and waited.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Mrs. Steinberg, this is Veronica More at the—"

"Daily News, I remember."

"Yes. Would it be possible for me to come ask you some questions?"

"Here? At my home?"

"Yes, if that's okay."

"I guess that would be all right."

"Great, I'll be right over," Rory said before hanging up and gathering her things.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

A short time later, Rory was sitting in the kitchen with Sarah Steinberg. Sarah made them coffee and handed a mug to Rory before she took a seat at the table. The reporter wasted no time as she got right to the point.

"I saw you were talking with Jason last night when he was still inside," she fibbed a little.

"I did talk to him."

"What were you discussing?"

"Oh, not much. He was so down about losing his dad. I was just trying to cheer him up a little."

"Was that all?"

"Yes. And that's what I told the police. Both times."

"Both times?"

"Yes. They called today and I had to recount everything again. Your asking makes it the third time."

"Oh, sorry. I didn't know they were calling people today." She knew a little.

"Well, they are. Not that I minded talking with Detective Studley for a second time, but he's all business."

Rory felt her face warm slightly, but she went on. "What did you do after you left Jason? Was he still sitting there, or did you get up at the same time?"

"I went to get a drink. My husband was over by the open bar."

"Right. Did you see Jason walk out to the terrace?"

"No. I don't know when he went outside. I had to use the restroom and when I came out, people were running around like chickens with their heads cut off."

Rory looked at her calmly. She made no indication that she was at all interested in what Sarah had just said. She was getting better at controlling her facial expressions. "So, you were probably in there when he fell?"

Sarah shrugged nonchalantly. "Probably."

"Was it hot in there—the restroom—to you? I thought it was really hot. In fact, I had to open the window, it was so hot," Rory lied in what was only a slight ramble. "I closed it before I left, I know some people don't like the cold. But I swear, I almost suffocated."

"Are you sure you closed it?"

"Positive, why?"

"I think it might have been open when I was in there."

"Was it?"

"Yes."

"Do you know who opened it?"

"You just said you did."

"Oh right. Of course." Rory mentally slapped herself. Good job, Gilmore. You can't even keep your story straight for two seconds. You are a bad liar. "Was anyone else in there when you were?"

"Amy was already there when I went in."

"So did she leave before you, then?"

"No. I left first."

"She was still in there when you left?"

"Obviously." Rory sat in thought for a moment. "I just feel so bad about Jason," Sarah started. "I hate to think that he would have gone out to that terrace while feeling so depressed."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, maybe he didn't fall."

"You don't say," Rory stated dryly.

"I tried to cheer him up, but he was so sad. I just hope he didn't jump."

"He was that sad, huh?"

"I didn't think he was that bad-off, but maybe."

"Uh-huh. You know, you've given me enough to think about, thank you so much letting me talk to you. You have a really nice house," Rory said complimentary. The house was nice. It appeared they did a fair job of keeping up with the Jones's.

"Thank you," Sarah said, standing up. "I'll walk you to the door."

Both stood up and walked to the foyer. "That's a nice bag," Rory commented, indicating a red purse sitting on an end table near the front door. It was open and Rory caught a glimpse at the contents—just normal purse contents any girl would have.

"Oh, yeah. It isn't mine, though. I think Ann or Amy forgot it at the reception last night—they were preoccupied. I picked it up. I'll run it over there when I get the chance."

"Oh, that's nice," Rory said as the door was opened for her. "Thanks again." She walked down the front steps and hailed a cab. When she was in the back seat of the yellow car, her phone started to ring. "Hello?"

"Gilmore, where are you?" her editor asked.

"I was talking with Sarah Steinberg. What's up?"

"Do you really have to ask?"

"You want to know if last night's incident has been ruled a homicide."

"Yes. You had the story last night, God only knows how. Don't sit around and wait for the police to contact you now. Get back here and get your source on the phone."

"I'm already out. I'll just drop by the precinct before I come back."

"You don't have to."

"Well, sometimes he's busy and doesn't answer his phone. I've already sent him a message once today and he hasn't responded yet, so I'd probably end up going down there anyway," Rory explained. That was even a mostly true story. Really.

"Do what you want. Just find out what's going on."

"Ten-four, little buddy."

"Don't call me that," James said before he hung up.

Rory gave the driver the address to the precinct and sat back. She checked her cell phone for any missed calls or messages, but there weren't any. After about fifteen minutes, the cab stopped in front of the police station and Rory paid before getting out. She walked into the building, showed her ID to the security guard at the door, and took the elevator to the third floor.

She walked into the detective's squad and went over to Tristan and Mark's work area. Only one desk had an occupant, though.

"Hey Robin, where's Batman?" she asked Stevenson, nodding her head at Tristan's desk. He looked up at her, miffed by her comment.

"I am not Robin."

"Well, you're wearing a red shirt today and I've never seen you do the driving," she reasoned.

He just shook his head. "He had to go to court, as though we don't have enough to do today."

Rory looked at him with furrowed brows. "Why?"

"Because we had to question a suspect and call a bunch of people."

"No, why did he have to go to court?"

"He had to testify for a case from a while back."

"Oh, that makes sense."

"He should be back soon, if you want to wait."

"That's okay. I can just leave him another message."

"All right."

Rory walked back out to the elevator and pressed the down button. But when the doors opened, she didn't step in. Instead, she went over to the bench and had a seat. Maybe she would wait, just for a little while. She sat for about ten minutes before she decided that she really should get back to the newsroom. She stood to leave just as the elevator doors opened and Tristan walked out.

He stopped in front of her and stared for a second before speaking. "Let me guess, you've been calling me and I haven't been answering?"

"Yes and no. I was told to get the latest details and I was already out. So I thought I'd just drop by."

"Well, I would love to be of service," he said, grinning cunningly.

"All right. Have you had lunch? You look hungry. And I'm basically always hungry. We should go get something to eat. I know you're really busy, but if you have time, I have some time," she rambled quickly.

"Sure, I haven't had time to eat today," he agreed tiredly. "Let me go tell Stevenson I'm back."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

"This is the place with the good coffee," Rory told Tristan after they'd sat down and placed their orders.

"Ah. Noted," he said, monosyllabically, as he loosened his dark burgundy tie and unbuttoned the top button of his black shirt.

"So how was court?"

"How did you know where I was?"

"A little birdie told me."

"Stevenson?"

"Yes."

"Ah. Well, court was simply delightful, as always. I got to swear on a Bible and answer a bunch of questions. It was awesome," he answered dryly.

"It sounds it."

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket and he took it out. He looked at the name and sent it to voicemail before putting it back in his pocket.

"So, was last night ruled a homicide?"

"It was. But we figured that."

"Yes, but I need it on the record."

"Right, well, record it. Someone pushed him."

"Have you guys questioned Amy today?"

"Yes."

"Have there been any admissions of guilt?"

"No," he shook his head. "She's denying everything. And the guests' stories haven't changed over night."

"I noticed you've been calling people today."

"Did you?"

"Yes. I've been doing the same—but only the family."

"Funny, how our jobs are so similar," he commented.

"It's hilarious."

"I think I could draw a partial Steinberg family tree. Three—possibly four generations."

"Let's see what we know," she said as she pulled her notepad and pen out of her purse. She opened the pad to a blank sheet and drew a line. She drew a dot at the far left side. "Okay, Amy was with her family until dinner was over, which was around eight o'clock, then people started getting up and she went to talk with her cousins, right?"

"Right."

Rory added a dot and a description. "Then, she got up to use the restroom. What did she say about the window?"

"That it was closed and she didn't open it."

"Hmm, that's weird," she pondered.

"Why?"

"Sarah said she went in when Amy was in there and the window was open."

Tristan looked up sharply. "She said that?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Today. I was at her house before I came here."

"She said the window was open when Amy was in there?" he asked again to clarify.

"Yes. Why, what did she tell you?"

"That she went to get a drink after she left Jason. Roman confirmed that she was over there."

"Yeah, and after that she went to the restroom. When she came out things were getting chaotic."

Tristan shook his head. "No. The person who was in there when Amy left before her—Amy claimed not to know who came in. She left and got a drink from the open bar, which was about the time one of her great uncles saw Jason splattered on the sidewalk—he went out to smoke a cigar. It was ten minutes after Amy came out."

Rory shook her head this time. "No, Sarah said she came out of the bathroom when things were getting hairy and Amy was still in there. And Dana said she saw Amy come out before she went in."

Tristan thought about this with a scrunched forehead. The waitress brought them their food and Tristan ignored another phone call on his cell. "Dana said she heard the news after she came out of the bathroom. Was she in there the same time as Sarah?" he asked. "She didn't say she was."

"No. Dana was the only one in there at the time. She said the window was open."

"Yes, she did say that."

"Sarah said it was open when she was in there. But, I may have suggested that I opened it, because of the heat in the room," Rory admitted with a cringe.

Across the table, Tristan froze before he sat his sandwich back down and raised a brow. "You what?"

"I just mentioned that it was hot, so I opened a window. I was only trying to find out if it was open when she was there. You know, jog her memory—suggest it had been tampered with."

"Jesus Christ, Rory. What are you doing? Aren't the details complicated enough without you making up your own?" he asked incredulously. He rubbed his forehead with his hand and took a deep breath.

"Well, it's done now," she said resolutely. "And she asked if I left it open."

"What?" He looked back at her.

"Yeah, I said I closed it before I left and she asked if I was sure, because it was open when she went in."

"Amy said it was closed the whole time. And that the other person didn't open it."

"Someone is lying," she said, scandalized.

He nodded in agreement. "Yeah, but which one? Disregarding you."

"Well, two people say the window was open already. One says it was closed the whole time."

"Plus, there's a time discrepancy. There's about a ten minute increment where people's stories aren't matching up."

"Can't you hook them all up to a lie detector?"

"Those aren't always accurate. Some people can trick them."

"You keep telling me when I lie. Can't you tell when other people do?'

"I can tell when you do because you're so bad at it. Others are more skilled at the art of dishonesty."

There was no point arguing, she knew it was true. "Are you?"

"I have to be, a little. Sometimes I bend the truth when conversing with suspects. You know, pretend like I know more than I really do—so they'll admit to stuff."

"Oh."

"But I don't make a habit of it in every day life."

"Good to know."

"Let's start over," he said, reaching over and taking her notepad. He turned to the next blank page and took a pen out of his pocket.

"That's weird, that looks familiar," Rory observed.

"What does?" he asked as he drew a line.

"That pen."

"Oh. That is weird."

"Maybe because it's mine."

"No, that's your pen," he said, nodding at the writing utensil in her hand.

"Yeah, and that's the one you stole from me last week."

"No, you gave this to me. It was generous of you. It works really well."

"I know it does—since it's mine."

"Well, now it's mine."

"I should perform a citizen's arrest on you," she said in a slight pout.

"I would love to see you try," he leered, though only halfheartedly. "Okay, this is the ten minutes in question. Amy went into the restroom," he said, tracing over part of the line and labeling it. "In the middle of that, Sarah went in and then came out. And after Amy left, Dana went in."

"Now the window."

"Amy said it was closed the whole time—"

"But Sarah and Dana said it was open," Rory added. "And Sarah was in there at the same time as Amy, which means it would have been open the whole time."

"Right. Now Amy said she got a drink and returned to her cousins and that's when they heard about Jason."

"But Sarah said she got a drink before going in the restroom and then came out when the party was getting chaotic."

"Parts of the accounts match, but others don't," Tristan pondered. He sighed and closed his eyes a few seconds. When he opened them, he changed the subject. "You know who went to Harvard?"

"The Unabomber?"

"Well, yeah. But that's not who I was thinking of."

"Oh, who went to Harvard?"

"Conan."

"The Barbarian?"

"No. O'Brien. And he's funny."

"Ah. Are you trying to tell me that you need a laugh? I don't have a Walker, Texas Ranger lever, but I could tell you a joke, if you'd like."

"That's not necessary," he said as his phone buzzed again. He growled impatiently and answered it. "Yes?"

Rory took the time to text James. He was probably wondering where she was.

"What for?" Tristan asked into the phone. "I can't. . . Today is Wednesday, it's a school night. . . Because I don't want to, for one thing. And for another, I've been having a long day." He listened before speaking again. "Who will be there? . . . Then I definitely don't want to come. . . No, you're being unreasonable. I have things to do. . . New York things. Pick a thing, that's what I have to do."

He listened some more and Rory didn't want to eavesdrop, so she went to pay the check and returned after a couple minutes with two to-go cups of coffee.

Tristan was still on the phone. He rolled his eyes in annoyance and sighed resignedly. "Then I will be there an hour after that. I will not be there earlier. . . Seven thirty, or not at all, Grandpa," he said firmly. "Fine," he retorted before ending the call. He sat the phone down and rubbed his face in his hands.

"Is everything all—," Rory started, but he held up a hand to stop her.

He messaged his temples with his fingers and had his eyes closed. "Well, my day just got longer," he said after he'd counted to ten in his head. "I've been summoned to Hartford for the evening."

"Oh," Rory said, a little disappointedly, thinking of the art show she'd suggested he stop by. "It happens to the best of us."

"I'd rather go another round at court," he said, dejectedly.

"Then it's a good thing I got you a pick-me-up," she said, handing over the second cup of coffee. "You look like you could use one to get through the rest of the afternoon."

"Oh, thanks. You're so privy to my needs."

"Wow."

"What?" he asked, glancing at her.

"You really are worn out. When you said that, it didn't even sound like you meant it to be inappropriate."

He raised a brow. "I must be having an off day." He picked his phone back up and touched the screen a few times. "Oh, you texted me," he observed and, then cringed slightly. "A few hours ago."

"That's right, I did. And it's okay, I know you've been busy."

"Why do you want to know the name of Roman's side dish?"

"I just thought I'd speak with her, find out what her take is on all this stuff happening in his family. It may not be at all helpful."

"Oh, well, knock yourself out. Her name is Alice Lee."

"Thank you," Rory said, taking her notepad back and writing the name down. "And she works at the same building as Roman and Dana?"

"Correct. Do me a favor from now on. Don't add your own details. I have enough to keep track of without the stuff you make up."

"I think I can do that."

"You think you can?"

"I know I can?"

"It concerns me that you're having trouble promising this."

"I promise," she said with her right hand raised. "I won't fib."

"Good. I guess I should get back so I can leave at a decent time," he said resolutely, though he didn't move. "I think I'm ready for that joke now."

"Okay. Knock-knock."

"Seriously?"

"Knock-knock."

"I should have been more specific, no knock-knock jokes."

"Ding-dong," she went on insistently.

He sighed and gave in. "Who's there?"

"Alec!"

"Baldwin?" She narrowed her eyes at him. "Alec, who?"

"Alec-tricity. Isn't that a shock?"

Tristan grinned, but didn't laugh. He shook his head dismally. "That was terrible."

"No it wasn't!"

"Awful. But I blame myself. Now, if you'd gone to Harvard, like Conan, you might have had a better joke to tell."

"That was a perfectly good joke," she said with a smile.

He shook his head again. "I expect better next time."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Later that night, Rory was milling around the art gallery. It was nearly ten o'clock, which would be closing time. Olivia was busy with some guests who were purchasing a few paintings, so Rory wandered over to Lucy. The dark haired woman was talking to the head of the wait staff, instructing the man to start cleaning up.

"Hey," Rory said when Lucy had finished. "It's been a good night."

"I know. I knew I would be fantastic. Did your grandparents enjoy it?"

"They did. They even bought a painting."

"Two, actually. Your grandmother said one would go in your grandfather's office."

"Oh, good. They had to leave a bit early. Grandpa has a meeting first thing tomorrow morning. I know they'd have liked to stay longer."

"That's all right, Olivia was glad they could make it at all."

"Do you need any help down here? I was going to head upstairs."

"No, go ahead. Everything down here is fine."

"All right, well, good night."

"Night," Lucy said before heading over to the counter to give Olivia a hand.

Rory was about to walk to the back set of stairs, when she saw out the corner of her eye someone walk through the door. Her pulse quickened elatedly as she watched Tristan glance around and walk over to a painting on the wall. He may have been staring through the painting, rather than looking at it. So, he didn't see her approach. She sidled up next to him in time to hear him exhale heavily.

"That sounded like a pretty pensive sigh," Rory commented.

Tristan looked down at her in surprise. He gave her a bit of a double take and knit his brows. "Well hot damn, you found a pair of pants," he observed, indicating the jeans she was wearing with a navy sweater.

She grinned at him. "Yeah, they were hiding in my drawer. They were there the whole time. Who knew?"

"Huh. Although, that sweater makes you look a little like a Chilton student."

"Or a Yale student. Blue is one of our colors."

"Of course."

"I thought you forgot."

"About Chilton's colors?"

"No, forgot about tonight. This—the art show."

"Oh. No. I remembered."

"I see that now."

He spotted the notepad and pen in her hand and nodded down at it. "Do you take that everywhere you go?"

"Do you take your gun everywhere you go?" she countered.

"Touché. Although," he said, pulling the sides of his jacket away for her to see his belt, sans gun. "My grandfather asked me in the past to leave all weaponry in my car. He might be a Republican, but he's not a member of the NRA."

"I see. And I'm just writing a review of the show for the paper."

"Oh."

"Hey, how did you get back so soon—from Hartford? That's practically a two hour drive to New York. Did you drive there and straight back?"

He snorted lightly. "I wish. But no, I was there for a couple hours. And I drive fast."

"Oh, I guess you don't have to worry about getting pulled over."

"Not so much."

"So, was it not an enjoyable visit?" she inquired.

He sighed again and shook his head. "Not entirely. Those kinds never are."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He shook his head again. "Not even a little," he said as he crossed his arms.

Rory looked at his hand and frowned. "I told you to put something on that," she reprimanded, taking his hand, which was cold from being outside.

He looked down at it, not too concerned with the nicks and bruises still on his knuckles. He took his hand back, waving it passively. "It's fine."

"It looks worse than it did last night. I didn't want to say anything earlier because you were tired, but if you aren't going to do anything about it, then let me."

"I'm still tired and it's fine. You need to calm down."

"Listen, I know you're a macho macho man—"

"Then refrain from quoting the Village People in reference to me," he interjected.

"But I won't think less of you for putting ointment on your hand so it doesn't get infected." He sighed tiredly. "Seriously, you're going to need a tetanus shot pretty soon."

"You're grossly exaggerating. But this is the only way you're going to let it go, isn't it?"

"Probably. Plus, Olivia is going to lock up in about five minutes. So you'll get kicked out, anyway."

"Fine. I don't have the energy to argue with you tonight."

Rory led Tristan to the back of the studio where there was a back set of stairs. When they reached the top, she unlocked a door and they walked down the hall to her apartment. She let them in and turned on a lamp. She kicked off her shoes and sat her notepad and pen on the end table.

"Have a seat," she told him, nodding at her couch before she went to the bathroom to get First Aid materials. She started back down the hall, but stopped short when she saw Tristan sitting on her couch. He was reading a copy of The New Yorker that had been sitting on her coffee table. And he had his glasses on. "Well, that's not fair," she whispered fiercely.

"What?" he asked.

"What?"

"I thought I heard you say something."

"Oh, no," she said as she walked into the living room and sat on the couch next to him. She nodded at the magazine in his hand. "Find anything worth reading in there?'

"Well, here's something written by a Lorelai Leigh Gilmore."

"Oh, you stumbled on that?"

"No. I saw it in the table of contents and flipped straight to it."

"Ah. I submit things freelance. Once in a while they actually publish it."

"You like to write about all kinds of subjects," he observed.

"Yeah, I have lots of interests."

"You've mentioned that before."

"That's right, I have," she agreed. "My grandparents came to the art show earlier tonight. They brought me a copy. They wanted to make sure I had one."

"I see. Were they the ones you had the wine with?"

"How did you know?" she asked in wonder.

"Because there are three wine glasses over on the kitchen counter."

"Oh, right. You noticed that? Good deduction."

"That's pretty much what I do—notice things and read in between the lines."

"Right. Good job," she said with a stupid grin. "I just got them a little liquored up before they looked around downstairs."

He nodded. "Nice." He nodded at the First Aid supplies in her hands. "Are you going to do something with that?"

"Oh, yeah—right. That's why you're here," she answered hastily.

He sat the magazine down and pocketed his glasses before settling back into the couch and surrendering his hand. She used a cotton ball to disinfect the cuts on the back of his hand with rubbing alcohol. When it fizzed a little, she glanced up at him.

"It'll take more than that if you want to see me cower in pain," he stated grimly.

She grinned and looked back down. "Just checking," she said quietly. She smeared some Neosporin over the cuts.

He stopped her when she opened a box of Band-Aids. "I don't need one of those, Clara Barton," he insisted, taking his hand away.

"Come on, just for that cut right there," she said, pointing to his hand.

"Those have Dora the Explorer on them," he protested.

"So, just be glad I'm all out of the Barbie kind. You can take it off later, just humor me."

He gave an exaggerated sigh. "Fine," he said, giving his hand back to her.

She put the Band-Aid on and smiled triumphantly. "There, you're all fixed up."

"Thanks. You've been awfully nice today," he said with an arched brow.

Rory looked mockingly offended. "I'm always nice," she said and he laughed inaudibly. She sat the First Aid supplies on the coffee table and sank back into the couch, sitting sideways to face Tristan. A few strands of hair had fallen away and hung at the side of her face.

"Of course you're always nice," he agreed gently. Her blue eyes sparkled a little in the low lamp light as she smiled at him kindly. Tristan's grin faltered and he just barely sighed in anguish as he gazed back at her. He thoughtfully tilted his head to the side as he brought his newly bandaged hand up to slowly brush the stray hair behind her ear. Before he realized what he was doing, his hand had slid down to her neck and his eyes softened when they looked at hers.

Rory's heart sped up as she held his gaze and gravitated toward him, scarcely aware that he was drawing her nearer to him. They both closed their eyes as their lips touched. He kissed her like he was starving and she responded to him with equal zeal. His lips were soft and cool on hers as he kissed her firmly. Rory shifted slightly and he kissed her along her jaw line before returning to her lips, which she parted enough for his tongue to slip in.

His right hand slid to the back of her neck and his fingers intertwined with her silky hair. She gripped the sides of his black suit jacket at its opening and gently drew him a tad closer. Their tongues wrestled insistently before dancing rhythmically. Meanwhile, Rory started to become conscious of growing warmth in a southern location of her anatomy.

Tristan abruptly stopped and moved back, a little out of breath. He looked at her, as though startled, or confused, and she hastily removed her hands from his jacket, in surprise that he had suddenly stopped. "I should go," he said as he stood up and quickly exited her apartment.

Rory sat on the couch with a deer in the headlights look, feeling bewildered and disappointed at what had just transpired.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

"Stupid, stupid man," Tristan said in disgust, shaking his head as he walked outside and got into his car. "Just because you were a stupid boy doesn't mean you have to grow up to be a stupid man."

He started the car and pulled away as he continued to lecture himself.

"She isn't some Siren and you aren't a sailor out at sea. Stop steering you ship towards the rocks, you're going to crash," he talked to himself as he drove south.

He remembered what he'd said the night before about feeling like Charlie Brown. How many times do you have to make the same mistake before you learn your lesson? Apparently once didn't do the trick, he scolded himself silently. He'd learned enough from history to know he shouldn't be repeating it.

This game of cat and mouse will not end well for you, he thought. Tom never caught Jerry. Don't you have any self-control at all? You just had to go to that art show. You couldn't have just left well enough alone and gone home.

"You went to Harvard, for God's sake. You're supposed to be smarter than this," he criticized himself out loud as he parked his car at his apartment building.

"I need to invest in a damn pair of earplugs," he grumbled as he got out of the Camaro.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

The next morning, Rory was inside the office of Alice Lee. She still wasn't sure if talking with her would be at all useful, but it wouldn't hurt anything.

"Miss Lee, I write for the New York Daily News, and I was wondering if I could ask you some questions about Roman Steinberg's family situation."

"I'd rather not give an interview. I don't think anyone would want to hear anything I have to say. His is married, you know," Alice said.

"I do know. And it wouldn't be an interview. I'm just doing some research. I'm talking to everyone about it. I tend to do my own investigations."

"Well, I guess if you aren't going to quote me in an article, or anything," the woman said, coming around.

"No, not at all, I swear. This is strictly off the record. Purely for my own interest."

"All right then," Alice said, gesturing to the one chair across from her desk.

"Does Roman talk with you about his family?"

"Yes, he tells me what's going on."

"How does he feel about everything that's happened in the last couple weeks?" Rory asked.

"He feels horrible. I don't know if you know, but he hasn't been getting along with everyone in his family for a while now."

"I've heard."

"Well, he feels really bad. He used to have a good relationship with his brother and now he's gone. They hadn't spoken in a long time."

"How long have you known him?"

"A few years. We met in the elevator. We'd always get to work at the same time and we started talking. That led to lunch here and there. I suppose you can guess the rest."

"I guess I can. What else does he talk about?"

She shrugged. "Just normal stuff—what he's doing at work, what his kids are up to. Sometimes he mentions his wife."

"What does he say about her?"

"He used to complain about her a lot. She likes to leave little honey-do lists for him and they always have to have the most up to date home décor and what not. Listen, I know that isn't an excuse for us to sneak around—"

"Oh, I'm not here to judge," Rory interjected.

"Well, we just like to talk to each other and it progressed. He needed someone to share with. And I like to be there to listen."

"I see."

"I think he also appreciates that I don't nag him all the time. I don't like the fact that I like someone who's married. But I just want to be there for him," she said, as though she was defending herself.

"Thank you for talking with me today."

"You're welcome. Thanks for not bringing a condescending attitude."

"Could I just offer a word of advice before I go?"

"I guess."

"Be careful. This sort of thing can be sticky. Someone could get hurt."

"Oh, okay."

Rory thanked the woman again and left the office. She wasn't sure what she wanted to do next, so she sat on a bench out by the street and watched cars as they passed by. She wondered how long it would be before James called, wanting an update. The results from the fingerprints might be in. She thought about who she'd have to get that information from. Then she thought about how that same person had bolted from her living room the night before. Had she done something wrong? She wondered to herself. It didn't seem like he'd had a problem with her at the time. Until he walked out, that is.

Rory decided to suck it up and just go down to the police station. She could find out if the fingerprint results had come in and if anyone had been charged. Two birds, one stone, she thought. If she happened to see a certain blonde detective and happened to hit him upside his head, then that would just be a bonus. So, she got up from the bench and hailed a cab.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

When she'd arrived, Rory looked up at the multi-story police station. She took a deep breath and walked up the steps to the building. She stepped into the elevator and thought about where she wanted to go. Her fingers hovered over the buttons labeled three and four. She impulsively pressed one and waited. Her heart was beating erratically as the doors opened at the third floor. Tristan and Mark were standing on the other side, on their way out.

"Uh, hello," Rory said, she looked from Tristan to Mark.

"Hey," Mark answered, stepping into the elevator.

"Hi," Tristan said curtly as his eyes darted to her before looking away.

Well, that was a terrific sign, she thought. He followed his partner, so they were all trapped in the small space together.

Tristan was looking a little rough around the edges today, like he was still worn-out. Or sleep deprived. "Are you on your way up?" he asked.

"Oh, uh, no. I was coming to this floor. But it looks like you're leaving—I caught you at a bad time," she explained quickly.

"Crime scene," Tristan said.

"What? I need a verb. And maybe a pronoun," she said with a frown.

"We're going back to the crime scene," he explained.

"I see. So . . . any results from the fingerprints yet?"

"No."

"So no charges then, either."

"No."

"Okay. I guess I can go back to the newsroom then."

"Sounds like a plan," Tristan said, staring at a spot on the elevator door.

Rory was starting to wonder if he had been in her apartment last night at all. Maybe she dreamt the whole thing. A scary thought—now she was the one having wild dreams.

"Actually, do you have some time?" Mark inquired, looking at Rory.

She and Tristan both looked perplexed as they turned their attention to the dark haired man.

"Uh, why?" she asked.

"Well, we're going to look at a women's restroom and we don't know much about the kinds of things that go on in there."

"Oh—um," she started, glancing timidly at Tristan. "Normal things go on. I imagine it can't be much different from what goes on in a men's room. Not that I would really know—never having been in one."

"You don't have to, if you're busy," Tristan put in.

"Uh—"

"Unless you want to," he added hurriedly.

"Well, I can probably spare forty-five minutes or so. If you think it'll help."

"Sure, if you have time," he said hastily. "And if you don't mind."

"I don't mind."

Mark's eyes moved from Tristan to Rory suspiciously as the doors opened. "Weirdoes," he muttered before walking out.

The other two silently followed and walked outside to the black Camaro. When they were all situated, Tristan turned the radio on loud enough that there was no need for conversation—which made the awkwardness much less palpable.

When they arrived at the banquet hall, they went up to the eighth floor. They all went into the women's restroom, which was still blocked off with yellow tape. Rory took her notepad out and turned to the page with Tristan's handwriting.

Mark took the reigns and got the ball rolling. "All right, so Amy came in and went into that stall," he said, pointing to the third stall. "Then at some point, Sarah came in and used the one next to Amy."

"I wonder how Sarah knew it was Amy that was in here," Rory commented.

"Maybe she saw her come in when she was still out there," Tristan suggested, pointing at the door.

"Okay, maybe," she agreed. "And Sarah left first."

"Right," Mark concurred.

"Did she wash her hands before leaving?"

"Yes."

"Did she do anything else?"

"Like what?"

"Did she apply more lip gloss or something like that?"

"Oh right, that's why you're here—a woman's perspective," Mark said.

"Amy said the other person just washed their hands and left," Tristan supplied.

"Okay," Rory started, "well, let's look at the sink."

"Why?" he asked tonelessly.

"I don't know. Do you have another idea?"

"No."

"All right, well, there aren't any hot and cold knobs," she observed.

"So?" Tristan asked. "It has a sensor."

"Right, so it would turn on all off all on its own, the person wouldn't have stick around to do it. And," she looked at the hand drying options," did Amy say how Sarah dried her hands?"

"Uh, no."

"Maybe you should find out."

"Why?" Mark asked.

She took a paper towel. "This takes less time and is mostly quiet, but," she turned on the air drier and yelled over it. "This is louder and takes more time." After the drier stopped, Rory looked to the two men.

"So, you're saying it might have been loud?" Stevenson asked.

"It could have been. And again, someone could walk away from the drier while it's still running. Amy could have heard wrong, if it was noisy."

"But she also said no one was in here when she came in," Tristan argued, eyes fixed on the sink.

"Right, but Dana said the window was open. Maybe someone else came in and Amy didn't hear. Maybe someone snuck in after Sarah left, unheard by Amy, and went through the window."

"Amy claimed it was closed the whole time," Tristan said.

"And we've already talked to everyone twice. No one else was in there at the time," Mark added.

"Right, but the three women can't agree on when the window was open," Rory said. "Someone isn't telling the truth."

"So, how is any of this supposed to help?" Tristan asked, his eyes had moved and were now settled on the window.

"I don't know, it was just a suggestion," she almost snapped, getting defensive. He could at least look at her when he shot down her ideas.

Just then, his cell phone buzzed. "DuGrey," he answered. After listening a moment, he looked up at the ceiling and sighed in frustration. "You're sure? All right, thanks anyway." He hung up and put the phone back in his pocket.

"What is it?" Stevenson asked.

"Fantastic news," the blonde replied sarcastically. "Of all the fingerprints on the windowsill, none were Amy's. I must have been wrong about the window. It was a stupid idea. Most of my ideas have been stupid lately," he said, self-flagellating.

Rory slightly narrowed her eyes at him, wondering what ideas he was referring to. "You might not be wrong," she said, glancing away. "It wasn't a bad theory."

His eyes shifted towards her, glowering at the situation.

Mark jumped in. "Maybe it was one of the other two women."

"Right," Rory agreed. "Or maybe it was Amy, but she used paper towels, so she wouldn't leave fingerprints. That's what I did Tuesday night when you went out on the ledge—because you said not to touch anything. Or maybe she had gloves."

"Dana saw her walk out," Tristan countered.

"Yes, but there's that time discrepancy and the window was open when she came in," she reminded him, holding up the notepad with the timeline he'd drawn the day before. "And the three people who were in here aren't agreeing on whether or not the window was open."

"That's true," Mark agreed. "And no one saw anyone walk out the door to the terrace when Jason was out there. This is the only other way out."

"Well, we're going to have to figure out who the prints do match. And we need to find out who's lying about the window being closed. Or opened," Tristan said, still sounding frustrated.

"Let's talk with Sarah and Dana again," Mark said, moving towards the door.

Tristan followed. Rory took a last look at the bathroom before she walked out, too. She followed the two men, who were making their way towards the elevator.

"I'm going to call the captain and make sure they wait to let Amy go, we should talk to her one more time, find out about the hand drying thing," Mark said.

"All right," Tristan agreed, pressing the button for the elevator.

"You go ahead. I'll get the next one. I won't get service in there."

"Okay," he said as he stepped into the elevator with his arms crossed. He was still glowering.

Rory followed him. She gave him a fleeting look before turning her attention to the line where the doors met after they'd closed. "So, how are you?" she asked without looking at him.

"Fine. You?"

"Fine. I'm fine."

"Good."

If it weren't for his standoffish behavior and monosyllabic answers, Rory would have sworn she had imagined the whole episode from the night before. They were quickly approaching awkwardness of high school proportions—as if she ever wanted to relive that time of her life again.

She quickly looked at him again and nodded at his hand. "That looks better—your hand, it looks better today."

He glanced down at it before focusing on the doors again, as though willing them to open. "Yeah. It is. I think I'll recover."

"That's good."

Neither spoke again until they had exited the building and stood on the sidewalk.

"Well, I guess I should get back to the newsroom."

"Right." She turned to the street, but Tristan stopped her before she got very far. "Hey, uh, Rory? Wait a second," he said.

She turned back to him and her heart sped up some. "Yes?"

"Listen, I want to apologize," he said hesitantly.

For your aloofness today? She wondered. "For what?"

"For last night."

"What about last night?"

"In your apartment—when I kissed you."

When we kissed each other, she corrected silently. So it really had happened, she thought. Then she hadn't been hallucinating. Well that was a relief.

He uncomfortably continued, "I was really exhausted and upset about having to go to Connecticut. I wasn't thinking clearly."

"Oh." Awesome. She could feel her heart sink.

"I know it didn't mean anything," he went on. She wished he'd stop talking. It sounded like he was lying. Was this how it sounded when she lied? Like she didn't want to be saying it in the first place? Because it didn't sound like he wanted to be saying the things he was saying. Either way, he continued in this vain. "I just wanted to give you my word."

"What's the word?" she asked, flatly.

"That you don't have to worry. I won't say anything to anyone.

"Okay, thanks," she said tonelessly as she stared at a brick on the wall of the building next to them. "I'm . . . glad we could clear that up."

"So, are we good?" he asked timidly.

She looked back at him and gave a tight, reassuring smile. "We're fine, Harvard," she said a little too cheerily, wondering if that was a lump she felt in her throat—it was. She swallowed hard.

A corner of his mouth lifted—bleakly. In reality, it mirrored hers, in both appearance and spirit. "Great. Oh, and uh, thanks for your help."

"No problem. And really, not all your ideas are bad," she said in a small voice as Mark exited the building.

"We'll see," Tristan said skeptically. "I'll, uh, see you later."

"Sure," she answered before he walked away. Rory watched him climb into his car and wondered what the hell his problem was. Or maybe she had the problem. That was entirely possible.