A/N This chapter leads us into the episode Amends.

Chapter 44

Bobby never did call her back. Alex went to work the next day with a nagging worry in her heart. Logan was there, however, looking like something the cat dragged in. He fiddled with the papers on his desk and then dropped them all back to the desktop. He walked over to Eames' desk.

"Hi, Mike," she said, her voice subdued.

"Eames. You, uh, you and Wheeler got the confession?"

"Yeah. She didn't tell you?"

"She told me." He shrugged and glanced around. "I just thought, you know, if there's any more paperwork to be done…"

She grinned and handed him a report. "Help yourself." Mike took the report in hand and looked it over, but made no move to leave. "You okay, Mike?"

He shrugged again. "I'm alive."

His words sent a chill down her.

"Look, I'm not ready to dive into all this yet. You wanna go get a cup of coffee?"

"Sure."

They were quiet on the ride down to the cafeteria, but once they got their cups and sat down at a table, he spoke. "I saw Goren last night."

She looked up in surprise.

"We had a few drinks together. He, uh, he said you told him about Holly."

"Sorry if I overstepped—"

"No, it's all right. I… I was glad for the company." He hesitantly added, "I kept thinking she was there… until Bobby came. It helped."

Alex was quiet as she remembered those first few nights in an empty house without Joe. The house was so empty, and there were plenty of times she'd thought she'd heard him shuffling in the kitchen or calling her name.

"My sister thinks there's a time, right after people die, when they can come to us… to say goodbye."

Mike thought of his dreams of Lenny, and then Holly, and he shrugged. "Yeah, maybe. It doesn't change anything, though, does it?"

Bobby had gone through the boxes of his mother's things. Once again, he studied the photo albums page by page. Again, he saw how happy she'd been before Brady, and how her demeanor had changed after.

He saw pictures from the old apartment, but also from the house. When his Grandmother died, she'd left the house to Frances and the boys. He'd lived there most of his life, until the Army. His mother had lived there until he'd had her committed.

He remembered another box, one that he'd tucked into his closet when he'd first moved her from the house to Carmel Ridge. He rooted through the closet and dragged it out into the open.

He found keepsakes: A drawing Frank had done in elementary school, an essay he'd written in sixth grade about modern lessons to be learned from Alcott's Little Women. Bobby read through it quickly, smiling. Of course she was proud of that. He'd chosen the book himself, and the ideas were all his own. He'd taken a lot of flack from the boys at school for reading that book, too. It was one of the few times when his mother had expressed hope for Bobby. Maybe, if nothing else, he could find a girl and give her the respect she deserved. Maybe, he could find happiness.

He continued sorting through the things in the box. There were things that only held meaning for his mother, things he didn't even remember. In the bottom of the box he found two books. They were library discards, the broken binding repaired by Frances' loving hands. Both were classics, and he remembered the stories well. Absent-mindedly, he fanned through the pages. Some things fell from between the pages. A photograph, a letter, a card from a bouquet of flowers.

The photograph was from Brighton Beach. His mother in the arms of Mark Ford Brady. They were laughing like newlyweds. The card was from him as well, and the letter. Bobby paused before reading it. A knot was forming in his gut, and he felt like he might lose his breakfast. He set the letter down and carried the picture with him to the living room. Hastily, he flipped through the pages of the scrapbook and found a similar picture of his mother with his father. Only neither one of them looked very happy. Mr. and Mrs. Goren looked stiff, like the affectionate arms were only for the sake of the pose.

He glanced back at the beach picture. His mother had a broad smile, and he could almost hear her laughter. Brady's arm was over her shoulder, and though he'd smiled for the camera, he was almost whispering in her ear. His other hand was against her arm, the back of his fingers barely touching her breast.

Bobby tossed the picture of Brady down and pressed his hands against his eyes. With leaden feet, he went back to read the letter.

My dear Frances,

It seems ages since I saw you on the beach. I can still remember the way your fingers felt against my skin, the sweet taste of cherry on your lips. I carry your picture with me everywhere.

Germany is a bore. Most of the buildings and streets have been rebuilt, but the people are defeated. The ones we liberated are broken with sorrow from all the loved ones lost. The former Nazi sympathizers are quiet. They go about their business quietly, and if they still resent our presence they don't say so. I think they're secretly glad the war is over. After all, there is no real peace under the nose of a gun.

I keep thinking of the beach, the warm sun, the sand hot against our feet. It is cold here now, and I would give anything to have you to keep me warm.

I will be coming home soon. I hope you will be waiting.

All my love,

Mark

Bobby's insides were churning. He knew Brady had raped and killed all along, even as the man courted his mother. He went back over the timeline in his head, and heard his mother's words once again. I could never be sure.

"Detective Goren," Rodgers said. "I'm sorry about your mother."

"Yeah, thanks," he said quietly. He looked around the morgue. "Could I… speak to you privately?"

"Sure." She led the way to her office, and he closed the door before sitting down beside her desk.

"You know, that Brady case…" he began.

"Good riddance," Rodgers mouthed. She rarely expressed her views, but having examined victim after victim, she had developed a bitter hatred of the man.

Bobby nodded his agreement. "I, uh… I don't know if you know this, but my, uh… mother dated him when she was young."

Rodgers' eyes widened in surprise.

"And, uhm, before she died, I… I asked her about him, and…" He felt his chest tighten. He wasn't sure he could speak the words to another human being. "There's a chance he was my father."

"Holy-" the word escaped her lips, but she stopped herself.

"I contacted the prison. I have his DNA."

"You want me to run a test?"

"To find out for sure," Bobby nodded. "But, Doctor, I have to ask you not to tell anyone. Either way, I'm not sure… what this will mean for me… you know?"

"Of course, Detective."

His expression was troubled, but he whispered, "Thank you, Doctor."

Bobby's brain continued to kick around the idea that Brady was his father. He walked the streets of the city, trying to let the sights and sounds distract him. Instead, he found he went further into his head, so much so that he didn't pay any attention to where he was walking.

Bobby stopped about two blocks from the soup line. In an alley, he heard a familiar voice, laughing. His feet moved of their own accord, and he grabbed his brother by the shirt, hefting him to his feet. "Frank!" he cried.

Frank was so stoned he couldn't focus his eyes. "Bobby," he mumbled.

Bobby shoved him, letting go of his shirt, and Frank staggered back a few steps. Some of his friends ran off. A few got to their feet and stood watching. Sobs overtook Bobby, and he tried to suppress them. "She… she died, Frank! You didn't even come to the funeral! You didn't—"

"She's in a better place, Bobby," he slurred. "She's happy now. She didn't need me there…"

With a final sob, Bobby shoved his brother hard against the brick wall. Then he turned on his heel and walked away, wiping the tears with his arm.

Alex stood over the island, cutting up vegetables for a dinner. She stopped when Bobby came in, and when she saw the ragged look on his face, she felt pain, too. "I, uh… I thought I'd make you something for dinner," she explained, gesturing to the food with the knife.

"I don't really need anything, Eames."

"I know. But I thought it would help."

"I don't want your help!" he cried. Bobby emptied his pockets on the counter and then walked past her to his room. He felt bad for snapping at her, but he was annoyed by her presence. Her voice in his doorway stung him.

"Bobby…"

Angrily, he turned his back to her.

"If you talk to me about it, maybe you'll feel better."

"Talking isn't going to change anything, Eames!" He glanced at her briefly, and then turned away again. "It's not going to bring her back, it's not going to make my brother quit using, it's not going to…" he almost mentioned Brady, but he stopped himself. "It's not going to change anything," he said again.

Cautiously, she stepped forward and put a gentle hand on his back. He was still angry, but her hand was a comfort. "Look, Alex," he said, and his voice was softer. "I think I should be alone for a while. I just need time to think. I'll… I'll call you when… when I'm ready."

She rubbed his back a little longer, and then spoke. "Okay… but you'll promise me… you'll take care of yourself?"

He rolled his eyes, but then he nodded. She was only trying to look out for him.

"Okay, Bobby. I love you." She kissed his cheek, then gathered her things and left. His feet were planted on the bedroom floor. He didn't budge.

Two nights later, Alex's phone chirped. She read the text. "Officer shot in head, on the way to Starch Memorial now."

Alex frowned and was dialing Bobby's number before she realized it. It rang three times, and his new message kicked on. "This is Robert Goren. Leave a message and I'll get back to you."

"Bobby, an officer's been shot in the head. He's on the way to Starch Memorial now."

"Eames!" Bobby said, scrambling to grab the phone without dropping it. He'd been sitting on the floor, and it wasn't easy to jump back to his feet. "I'm here."

"I'm sorry to bother you, Bobby," she began.

"No, Eames, no." He was putting his coat on and gathering up his badge and his keys as he spoke to her. "It's right that you called, okay? I'll meet you there."

Alex rushed in and found her Captain there, along with most of the brass. She heard Ross' voice. "He had a wife and an 8 year old son. She's on the way."

"What the hell happened?" Alex asked, worry apparent in her voice.

"Detective Quinn seated in the driver's side of his unmarked car, took two bullets to the head," Ross replied.

They watched the hospital staff working frantically to save him. "Quinn? Kevin Quinn?" Eames asked.

"You know him?" Ross asked.

"He was my husband's partner…the night Joe was murdered." Alex's gut was wrenched as she realized Kevin didn't have a chance. She knew that she was going to have to try to comfort Kevin's wife.

The cops stood vigil outside the closed curtain until a man in scrubs came out shaking his head. "What was their detail?" Alex asked.

Ross walked beside her as he answered. "They were posted at 106th Street and Jamaica protecting a witness in an upcoming drug trial."

Goren walked up behind Ross, and Alex was glad to see him. "Was his partner in the car?" Goren asked gruffly.

Ross glanced sideways. "You still have two weeks' personal leave."

"Yeah, doesn't matter. Cop has been shot."

"Murdered," Alex corrected him.

Bobby was searching Alex's face. "Quinn. This is the same…?"

"Yeah," Alex replied.

"He was alone," Ross said. "That's why the Chief of D's wants Major Case to take the lead." He tapped Goren on the arm and the two detectives followed him down the hall. "Detective Copa," Ross said, "These are Detectives Goren and Eames."

The man's t-shirt was soaked with blood. He'd cradled his partner's head all the way to the hospital in the back of the patrol car, in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding.

"We're sorry about your partner." Alex said with a nod, her voice wavering as the emotions started to overwhelm her.

Bobby glanced over at her, and decided he should ask first, to give her a chance to regroup. "So, where were you when your partner was killed?" Bobby asked. His voice was soft and unaccusing, but his words still sounded too sharp.

"Bathroom break," Copa said. "On my way back, I heard the first shot," he said. "I run to the car. I see this short Asian guy at the driver's side… firing the second shot."

"So… you were close enough to see his face?" Goren asked. Bobby had already noticed something he didn't like about the way Copa answered his question.

"Sure," Copa said with a nod. "About 20 feet."

"When you can, we want you to go back there with us," Alex said.

Copa nodded. "I'll change," he said. He walked between the detectives and down the hall. Goren stepped further into the room, closer to the Captain. "Avoiding eye contact," he said. "Did he call in his bathroom break?"

"At 1:40," Ross said.

"What time was his 10-13 logged?"

Alex saw Quinn's wife walking down the hall with Chief Moran. "Theresa," she called. The woman stopped and stared at her through teary eyes. Alex hadn't seen her in years. She held up a hand in a wave. It seemed completely the wrong thing to do. Bobby watched Alex closely. Her eyes never left Theresa as the woman pulled aside the curtain and went to see her husband's dead body.

Bobby wrapped up the evening with the Captain, and convinced Eames to walk out with him. He knew about Joe. She'd told him all about it seven years ago, over a dinner of cold kraut and biscuits. Theresa and Kevin had been dating when Joe Dutton was killed. Alex and Joe had spent lots of evenings with them. Alex told Bobby about losing her husband. She told him about the grief afterwards, and how her friends had just drifted away, one by one. He never forgot even the slightest detail of that conversation. It was their first real moment of intimacy, in his opinion.

She was barely keeping it together, he could tell. Alex was very quiet, and though she held her head high and her eyes were clear, she walked just a little too stiffly. Bobby put his hand in the small of her back. "I can… take you home," he said.

Without a word, she nodded. Alex knew if she tried to speak, she would cry, and she didn't want to cry.

He led her to his car, and she slid into the seat. It smelled like armor-all. Lewis had helped him detail the mustang before the funeral, and she had to admit, there was comfort in the clean smell of the leather. Bobby closed her door for her and soon was in the driver's seat, weaving through the traffic to take her home.

He came in the apartment with her, but he stayed near the door, waiting for her to say something, to open up. She said nothing, and after ten minutes, he was beside himself, unsure what he should do.

"I can… I can stay if you want," he told her, thinking maybe holding her in his arms with his back against the headboard would be just the thing.

Alex's eyes were dull when she responded. She shook her head. "Y-you're not Joe," was all she said.

He ignored the stabbing pain that went through him and scratched his head, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. "Promise you'll… take care of yourself, Alex," he said quietly. At her nod, he opened the door. "I'll pick you up in the morning," he said before he left.