Author's Note: Thank you for your support of this story. I've been overwhelmed by the response. It's always a thrill to get support in a smaller fandom—so, thank you!
As a reminder, we learn in Amends that Eames and Dutton were wed shortly before Saint Patrick's Day 1995. No exact date is given so I have expanded based on that to place their anniversary in late February.
I have also altered the age of Quinn's son for plot reasons. Instead of eight, he's nine going on ten. I'm sure you can guess why.
I've made some slight alterations to the sequence of events and scenes from Amends. However, I've tried to retain the spirit of that storyline as closely as possible.
This chapter is more Eames-focused because it deals with the events of Amends. That will switch with Bobby becoming the focus when we get to Untethered.
Content Warnings
Discussion of: Sexual assault, trauma, pregnancy, miscarriage/loss, and violence
Scenes containing: Substance use, grief/loss, sex
"I'm sorry," Eames apologised. "I know that you're on leave. It's late. I'm the last person you want to hear from—"
"No. No, you were right to call," Bobby assured her. "I'll meet you there."
The ride to Starch Memorial in Queens took longer than anticipated. Traffic wasn't bad at all on the Brooklyn-Queens expressway, but Bobby had run into a jam when he reached Jackson Heights.
There was a choke point of squad cars and state police stacked up around Starch Memorial in Queens.
Bobby couldn't recall the last time he'd had to flash his badge and bark 'Major Case' so many times in one night.
On the drive over, Goren caught a flash of news. It didn't have much more information than Eames had provided during their brief phone call.
An officer, an NYPD detective, had been shot on East 86th in Queens.
It was unusual for Major Case to take the lead on a case like this. Typically, IAB wanted to handle any officer-involved shootings—whether that be an officer firing at a civilian or instances when an officer was the target.
The fact Major Case had been tapped—specifically Eames and Goren—spoke to something more going on. Logan and Wheeler were available. Detective Daniels was itching to prove himself and was familiar with the area from his time on the gang task force before moving into Narcotics.
No, if they had called Major Case then that meant something was very rotten.
Eames was waiting just inside the door of the trauma centre.
There was no animosity or sharp look—nor did Bobby spy any relief in her face at his presence.
In fact, Eames looked shell-shocked.
In the corridor behind her, a team of medical professionals rushed past.
Moran, the Chief of D's, was hovering near the corner, barking questions at the already harangued hospital staff. Ross was there too, trying to talk Moran down.
"Let them do their work," Ross urged.
"Why isn't he in surgery?" Moran demanded.
A young doctor stopped to address Moran—but not before providing instructions to a nurse.
"Page anaesthesia and fill them in. I want two large bore IVs. Type and cross for four units."
Moran gripped the doctor's arm.
"Why isn't he in surgery?" Moran repeated.
"We have to stabilise Detective Quinn first," the doctor explained.
Moran wasn't having it. He was up in arms that an NYPD detective had been targeted. There was no telling if this was a random act of violence or something more sinister.
"Please, I need to go," the doctor said. "But if he has any family—you should get them here."
Moran visibly staggered.
"I'll call one 1PP and have them pull Quinn's file," Ross offered.
"No need," Eames interrupted.
Ross turned, surprised by her statement. Eames had spoken little since arriving.
"He has a wife, Theresa. And a son. He'd be almost ten now," Eames said.
There was a strange, faraway look in her eyes as if she was opening an old photo album for the first time in years or walking back into an old haunt after a long absence.
"You know Quinn?" Ross asked.
News about the shooting might come better from a friend of the family than the brass.
"He was the best man at my wedding," Eames answered.
"Good, have her make the call," Moran ordered before stalking off.
Eames blanched. Goren could tell something was very wrong.
"Eames?" he prompted softly.
"Kevin Quinn," she said in disbelief.
She was still struggling to process that Kevin Quinn had been shot while on duty, that she was back in the hospital—in the same trauma centre no less—waiting for the inevitable news.
And that it could be Kevin Quinn of all people.
It was a risk every officer took each day. But the sheer odds that two partners could both suffer the same fate a decade apart just wasn't something Eames could rationalise.
Bobby gently put his hand on Alex's shoulder.
"Eames?" he repeated
"He was Joe's partner."
Jesus. Bobby thought.
That was the last fucking thing Eames needed right now.
"As in Joe… Joe?" Bobby asked.
The question felt stupid the moment it left his mouth.
"Yes."
Of course, it could only be one Joe.
Eames's hesitation wasn't lost on Ross.
"Eames? Would you like me to make the call?" he offered.
"No need. Theresa's already on the way."
Detective Copa approached the group. He'd just come from making the call.
Eames didn't squick easily. She was accustomed to the gory work of homicide investigations. Even when she'd been carrying her nephew, she had no issue poking around a dead body.
But that night, she froze at the sight of Detective Copa and his bloodied shirt. All the colour drained from her face.
It was all too reminiscent of the night she had been in the same position—only that night, it was Kevin Quinn standing there in a shirt stained with Joe's blood.
"Eames?" Copa said, extending his hand.
"Eames," Ross repeated, pulling her attention back to the present.
"Sorry, yes," she replied, shaking Copa's hand.
Alex needed to refocus, to clear her head of any and all memories of the past. She had a job to do. And Quinn's shooting had nothing to do with Joe's murder.
It's a coincidence. Eames told herself. A brutal, horrible coincidence. Nothing more.
"What was your detail?" Eames inquired.
"Witness protection. An upcoming trial. There was a shootout a couple months back between two rival gangs. An eight-year-old kid ate a bullet. Only one witness came forward—I'm sure you can guess why," Copa grumbled.
The area wasn't exactly known for good community-police relations.
"Was this the same?" Goren asked.
His mind was already in full gear.
"How many shots were fired? Is it possible Quinn was hit unintentionally?" Goren questioned.
Copa shook his head.
"Quinn was shot twice," Ross shared, filling them in. "One in the side of the head. Close range. Then again through the eye."
Eames closed her eyes and took a moment to regroup.
Kevin Quinn may have been clinging to life, but there was no way he was coming back from a shot like that.
"So, this was about sending a message," Eames remarked.
"The trial?" Ross inquired, looking to Copa for information.
Copa shrugged.
"I dunno."
"If this was about the trial, why wouldn't they shoot you too?" Goren pressed. "Or the witness for that matter. If this is about tying up loose ends for a trial…"
Goren trailed off.
"She was probably next," Copa answered.
Goren nodded slowly.
"You haven't answered my question," he pointed out.
Copa scoffed.
"What? You think I'm responsible for this? That it's my fault Quinn's fucking brain dead?" Copa roared.
Goren didn't spook.
"No," he replied innocently. "I just want to know why they didn't shoot you. It could be important."
"I wasn't in the car. Maybe if I had been, Kev would still be alive. Is that it, huh? Are you happy now? Is that what you wanted to hear?"
Copa's breath was ragged. He shifted his weight from foot to foot.
"We just want to find who did this. To figure out why," Goren said in a smooth voice.
Ross put a hand on Copa's shoulder and assured him that Detectives Eames and Goren were two of the best.
"Trust them to do their job," Ross urged.
"Detective, where were you when Quinn was shot?" Eames asked.
It was a trick Eames and Goren had used plenty of times. When one partner couldn't get anywhere with a witness or suspect, the other would pick up their line of questioning.
"Water closet," Copa said.
"At the witness's home?" Goren pressed.
Copa hit the roof.
"Why do you care?" he shouted in Goren's face. "You checking up on me now?"
"We just want to find the person responsible," Goren reiterated.
"Then find them instead of wasting time asking me about my fucking piss!" Copa fumed.
Goren decided to shift gears.
"When you got back, did you see anything?"
"Finally," Copa hissed.
A look passed between Goren and Eames. Copa was grieving for his partner. And it was only natural to feel misplaced guilt—especially since Copa had been away from the car.
But his attitude only hampered their investigation.
"Short guy. Dark hair. He was right next to the window when he fired the second shot," Copa recounted.
"You were close enough to see his face?" Goren asked.
"Yeah, sure."
Copa's answer didn't exactly inspire confidence in his ability to make a positive ID.
"Did you recognise the shooter?" Eames asked.
Copa hesitated.
"I dunno. Maybe."
Copa grew increasingly agitated. Without words, Goren and Eames came to an understanding. Copa's answers in this state weren't doing them much good.
"When you're ready, we'd like you to join us out at the scene. Walk us through what happened," Eames said.
"I'll change," Copa announced.
Without another word, he took off down the corridor to change out of his bloodied clothes.
As soon as they were alone, Goren asked a pressing question of Ross.
"What time did he call in his break?"
"Quinn called it in for him at 1:40," Ross answered.
"And when did he log the 10-13?" Goren asked.
Before Ross could answer, the doors to the trauma centre slid open.
A terrified, shaken Theresa Quinn stumbled in. She was in a daze, still reeling from the news that Kevin had been shot. A uniformed officer—the nearest available—had been dispatched to drive Mrs Quinn to hospital.
Copa had not shared the grisly details over the phone. He thought that would be best done in person.
"Theresa," Eames said.
Theresa Quinn froze as if she'd just seen a ghost from the past. She frowned, stunned by Eames's presence in the waiting room.
Theresa clutched her purse. Her eyes began to well up.
"Allie?"
Before Eames could answer, the Chief of D's swept in and whisked Theresa down the corridor to a private area outside of surgery.
Copa, now thankfully changed, was waiting to greet her.
"I have to meet the commissioner," Ross announced, taking his leave.
For the first time in five weeks, Eames and Goren found themselves alone.
"He avoided eye contact," Goren observed. "His behaviour… he's nervous."
"His partner was just shot. It could have been him," Eames pointed out.
"Maybe. Or maybe he's hiding something?"
Eames made a face.
"Look, I don't feel good making that suggestion. But we have to consider all possibilities," Goren said.
"Guilt is only natural. That kind of reaction, the pressure, it could just come from being outside of the car when it happened," Eames argued.
Copa did seem genuinely distressed over Quinn's death. His behaviour with Theresa was in line with a grieving partner trying to comfort the spouse.
"Or Copa could have been the target?" Goren theorised.
"More likely both of them. And that witness."
Goren couldn't argue with that logic. It was the most plausible explanation.
For a moment, Eames and Goren stood in silence watching the scene play out down the corridor.
Theresa listened, crying silently as Copa and Chief Moran spoke. She was trying to keep it together. She still hadn't fully processed that Kevin was lying behind a curtain waiting for a surgery that would likely never come.
Alex's heart went out to her. She knew that feeling all too well.
The young doctor from before stepped out of the room and into the corridor. His scrubs were wet with blood and there was an unmistakable look on his face.
Eames started down the corridor toward Theresa before the doctor had even removed his mask.
"Eames?"
Goren followed after her. They were nearly to the end when Theresa Quinn screamed and collapsed against the wall, overcome with grief at the news that Kevin had succumbed to his injuries.
For Eames, it was too surreal.
Moran and Copa were only too happy to pass off the responsibility of comforting the widow to Eames.
Alex pulled Theresa into an embrace.
Eames said nothing. There were no words to be said that could offer relief or hope. Instead, she just held Theresa, gently rocking her back and forth as she patted her back. It was the same way Kevin Quinn had held Alex in the hour of Joe's death.
"I want to see him," Theresa sobbed.
"No. You don't," Eames replied softly, tightening her embrace.
Alex knew that the last sight of Kevin would only haunt Theresa. She would be better off remembering whatever last conversation or kiss they had shared before work that morning.
At that moment, Theresa Quinn realised who was holding her. She sat back and blinked, eyeing Eames with suspicion.
Then she scowled with utter contempt.
"Get away from me," Theresa spat.
Eames understood. She didn't push back. She simply nodded and got up—promising Theresa that she could call her anytime.
"Shut up!"
Theresa lashed out, shoving Eames away. Her body shook with fury as she rose and closed in on her former friend.
"I don't care to listen to you spew false platitudes. To tell me everything will be alright. That I'll get through this!" Theresa shouted. "GET AWAY FROM ME!"
Eames put her hands up and backed away.
"We'll go."
Eames and Goren drove to 1PP separately to pick up a service vehicle to take to the scene.
Eames climbed into the driver seat of the SUV on instinct.
She sat behind the wheel and took a breath.
"Are you alright?" Goren asked.
"You got rid of your beard," she replied, avoiding the question.
Goren reached up and scratched at his face.
"Well, yeah. I figured with coming back that I should uh… well, you know. The G-man look and all," Goren said, fumbling for an answer.
"I liked it," Eames said.
She stopped herself there. She couldn't tell Bobby that she liked the way it looked, the way he groaned when she raked her fingers through it.
The way it felt between her thighs.
Eames closed her eyes and cocked her head to the side as if to push away an unpleasant thought.
From his position in the passenger seat, Goren watched with fascination.
"Eames?"
"We should get going," she said, making no move to start the vehicle.
"Do you want me to drive?" Goren asked.
Eames's hands were on the steering wheel. She gripped it to keep them from trembling.
"I can," Goren urged.
"I can smell the whisky on your breath," Eames shot back. "I'm sure that went over real well with the Chief of D's."
To her horror, Bobby leaned across the seat. His face hovered inches away from her own. And for several terrifying seconds, Alex thought he was going to kiss her.
"What the hell are you doing?" Eames demanded.
Bobby froze.
"I just… I uh—"
He paused and smiled.
"I know this isn't the time but—"
"I can't believe you. The very nerve," Eames huffed.
Bobby opened his mouth to speak. Eames's hand shot up to stop him.
"Don't," she warned.
Focusing on her irritation seemed to calm Eames.
She flipped the ignition and peeled out of 1PP to drive back to Queens.
They rode in silence.
Copa beat them to the scene.
It wasn't difficult to piece together the scene. The shooter had come in at a close range. They were a good shot too—no strays, no hesitation.
What struck Goren again were the inconsistencies.
"What direction did you return from?" Goren asked.
"I was right here," Copa said, standing next to the passenger side door.
"But from where?" Goren asked, gesturing around the scene.
"I told you, I was taking a leak," Copa insisted.
Goren nodded as he surveyed the area.
"So, you were here when the shooter fired the second shot. He had to have seen you. Why didn't he shoot you too?" Goren asked.
Copa didn't have an answer.
"Why would somebody shoot me?" Copa asked.
"Why would somebody shoot Quinn?" Goren asked in response.
Eames focused her attention in the car. She spied something on the floor under the wheel. It was a photograph, upside down. There were a few specks of blood on the back.
With a gloved hand, Eames reached to retrieve.
She gasped softly.
There, staring back at her, were the four of them—Kevin, Theresa, Eames, and Joe.
Kevin was at the grill. Joe was goofing on behind him in his ridiculous Hawaiian swim shorts, beer in hand, and broad smile on his face.
The memory of that day came flooding back.
5 July | 1997 | Block Island
Joe Dutton rarely drank.
NYPD officers were expected to maintain a certain level of sobriety even when off the clock.
Their weekend getaway to Block Island was a rare treat for Joe, his wife, and their best friends to kick back and let loose.
Eames was just applying sunblock in the mirror when Joe popped the cap off a bottle of beer. He set it down on the counter next to her and then flopped down on the hotel bed.
"Oh, no thanks," Alex said, hoping to catch Joe before he cracked another one open.
Too late.
Joe leapt off the bed, full of energy. He came up behind his wife and snaked his arms around her, resting his chin on her shoulder.
"C'mon, Allie. Live a little," he teased, biting down on the shell of her ear.
Alex turned in his arms and grinned up at Joe.
"I do intend to have a good time. I just don't feel like drinking. That's all," she said.
"Are you feeling alright?" Joe asked, concerned.
Earlier in the week, Alex had been hit by a summer cold. It had started halfway through June and seemed to linger.
But now, she looked the picture of health.
"Never better," Alex replied.
She stood on her tiptoes to give him a quick peck on the lips. Alex dropped back to her feet to resume getting ready.
Suddenly, Joe's arm shot out to stop her.
He looked his wife up and down and then cocked his head to the side as an idea began to form. His hand tentatively hovered at his wife's hip.
"Allie?"
A nervous smile spread across his face. Wordlessly, Joe pleaded for her to confirm his theory.
Alex could help but smirk. She nodded.
"Oh my God!" Joe breathed, stunned and delighted.
He dropped to his knees and laughed, staring at his wife in wonder.
"You don't even—"
"It's very early," Alex explained. "But I'm sure it won't be long before I start to show."
Joe was in disbelief. He glanced up at his wife, at a loss for words.
"How long have you known?"
Alex bit her lip.
"Two days," she confessed. "I have another appointment next week. I was going to wait until I'd been back to the doctor."
"So… so it's just our little secret?"
"Yeah," Alex replied. "For now."
Joe kissed her navel, grinning like an idiot.
"Our little secret," he whispered.
Present
"I knew I recognised you," Copa said, spying the photograph in Eames's hand. "You're Allie Dutton or… you were."
"Alex Eames," she responded automatically. "I never… I never took Joe's name."
Goren reached for the picture before Eames could stop him.
So, that's Joe.
It was the first time Goren had ever gotten a look at Eames's late husband. She kept no photographs of him on her desk.
Goren rarely visited her home. He had only ever seen the entry way and the main room downstairs. There were no photographs of her life with Joe there either.
"You were close," Goren remarked.
His statement was direct at Eames and not Copa.
"That was a long time ago. It doesn't have anything to do with this case," Eames replied as she snatched the photograph back.
The thought of Goren poking around that part of her life was too much to bear—especially after the way he'd cut her out for the last five weeks.
Copa wasn't much assistance at the scene. His answers revealed only one thing—he was hiding something.
Without much to go on, Eames and Goren decided to head back to 1PP. It was almost 5:00 a.m. and they were hoping the medical examiner could fill in some of the gaps from Copa's disjointed account of the shooting.
As soon as they were alone in the car, Goren decided to raise the obvious.
"So… Allie."
"Don't."
Goren was, in part, only being his curious self. There was another part of him that had to wonder if there was some relationship between Joe Dutton's murder and Kevin Quinn's shooting.
But underneath all of that was a tiny part of him that wanted information about his partner, a peek into the life she kept locked away.
"Was it a nickname?"
"No one calls me Allie. Let it drop," Eames ordered.
"Well, Theresa Quinn called you Allie. Copa knew you by that name which means that's how Kevin Quinn knew you and—"
Eames pulled the key out of the ignition. She thrust them over at her partner, slamming the door harder than intended as she got out.
Goren got the hint and slid over into the driver's seat.
A moment later, Eames climbed in on the passenger's side.
"I'm sorry," Goren apologised.
His voice was much softer than before. Alex couldn't look at him. She kept her attention focused out the passenger window.
"It's what he called you, isn't it? Joe?" Bobby asked.
"No one calls me Allie," Eames answered.
The rest was left unsaid.
Not anymore. Not since Joe.
"I sensed some tension back there between you and Theresa Quinn," Goren remarked.
"Are you interviewing me?" Eames scoffed.
"No, no. It's just that it seemed to get under your skin," Goren said.
"Well, you're the expert," Eames said dryly.
They rode in silence most of the way back to 1PP.
But Robert Goren just couldn't let it drop. His mind demanded information. They hit the early morning traffic and found themselves in a standstill on the Williamsburg Bridge.
"Was there a falling out?" Goren asked.
Eames fell back against the seat with a heavy sigh.
"Can you just let it go?"
To her surprise, Bobby did. He fell silent, saying nothing as they sat in traffic. That silence was enough to get Eames to open up.
"We just… we drifted apart," Alex shared. "After Joe died, one by one I stopped hearing from people. There just wasn't a place for me anymore. Kevin Quinn was the only one that really kept in touch."
Even that had been at a distance.
"When was the last time you spoke?" Goren asked.
"About a week ago. On the phone," Eames replied.
"Any particular reason? I mean, was that typical?" Goren pressed.
Eames hesitated.
She had never wanted to share that part of herself with anyone again—especially not Goren. Not now.
"I take flowers to Joe's grave every year on our anniversary," she explained.
Anniversary.
Bobby's stomach dropped.
For years, he'd noticed that Eames was always sombre, a little down, and more on edge at the end of February. Bobby had always chalked it up to the winter blues.
Now he understood the real reason.
He felt awful. He'd cut Eames out at the worst possible time of the year. It was likely when she had needed someone most—and he'd ghosted her.
"Quinn would meet me there. And then we'd get a drink. This year, he called to say he couldn't because he was working a case."
Eames dropped her gaze to her lap. She picked at her nails.
"I wasn't surprised. It's been ten years. Quinn hung on the longest. Everyone else dropped away a long time ago," she concluded.
Bobby felt for her. It wasn't easy dealing with grief. People tended to naturally drop away after a loss.
"Grief. Yeah. People make mistakes," he said.
Traffic started to move again. It was slow going, stop-and-go, but they were inching their way back to Manhattan.
"Is that what happened with Theresa?" Goren inquired.
"I don't know," Eames lied.
"Or did she think you and Quinn were—"
Eames cut him off, emphatically denying that.
"God, no," she asserted. "Theresa wasn't like that. No, we just drifted apart."
"Do you know why? It's just that I picked up on some strong animosity. That wasn't just grief or lashing out it was—"
"I don't know!" Eames said in a stern voice. "People drift apart, Bobby. It happens."
Ouch.
"You don't always know the reason why. One day you're fine and the next you're not talking, just cut out of their life like everything you thought you had, everything you shared was nothing more than a lie," Eames said.
They had strayed from the original topic of their investigation.
Alex clutched her necklace, running her thumb along the chain as they waited in traffic. It was a shame she couldn't get out and hoof it back to 1PP or call a cab—she gladly would have in that moment to get away from the stifling atmosphere of the car.
Bobby opened his mouth to apologise, but Eames anticipated it.
"Don't. Please don't," she said.
She crossed her arms and fell back into her seat.
"I know you're angry," Bobby acknowledged.
"I am way beyond angry," Eames confessed. "You don't get to yank me around on whatever emotional yoyo you're riding this week."
She turned and met his eyes for the first time since Bobby's arrival at Starch Memorial.
"You know, I really thought you would have had the courage to tell me, to come to me and say that you were uncomfortable or that you weren't ready or… or anything."
Eames's voice cracked.
"Anything other than just… nothing? For five weeks?"
She shook her head in disbelief.
Bobby did the only thing he could think of. He cupped the sides of Alex's face and pulled her into a kiss, a kiss that he hoped spoke volumes about the way he felt—the grief, the guilt, the love.
The car behind them laid down on the horn.
When they broke apart, Bobby smiled.
Eames was horrified.
"You… you don't… you don't get to do that. No," she said.
She turned away, humiliated that Goren had the nerve to just waltz back into her life and expect that things could go back to the way they were.
"Don't ever do that again," Eames warned.
Bobby turned back to the steering wheel and resumed driving.
"As you wish," he said sadly.
1PP was packed.
Everyone had come in regardless of if they were scheduled or not. Everyone was on the phone or chasing down information. There was barely room to move in the bullpen.
In a way, it reminded Bobby of the flurry of activity in the aftermath of Eames's abduction.
Detective Daniels was already on loan from the drug task force and his expertise was a great asset.
He'd already compiled a list of suspects in the area based on his own experience working that neighbourhood for years before the move to Narcotics in Brooklyn.
Copa had come straight to the scene. He was eager to catch his partner's killer—even if he'd been less than forthcoming with Goren.
"These are the Eighty-Sixers," Daniels said, indicating to a group of photographs on the bulletin board. "They started out dealing crack. Low level. But they recently graduated to heroin. It's caused some issues. Most minor turf skirmishes."
"These guys are why we're on that protective detail," Copa added.
One of those turf skirmishes had led to the stray bullet and the murder trial and witness that Quinn and Copa were assigned to protect.
"They've been fighting with the Southsiders for months. This guy here, Cho, he's awaiting trial," Copa said.
"And this," Daniels said, pointing to the middle photo. "This is Sang, their leader."
"It's him," Copa said quickly as if he had only just remembered.
Goren's eyebrows shot up.
"Sang? You're certain?" Goren asked.
"Yeah. It's him," Copa insisted.
Eames too was sceptical of this sudden ID.
"Is there any connection between Sang and Cho?" she inquired.
It was out of character for a new, relatively minor gang to execute an NYPD officer over a single witness in a murder trial.
"That level of planning, the coordination, it's unusual for a gang this size," Goren said.
"What? You don't believe me?" Copa asked. "This guy, Sang. He's a psycho."
"My partner is right," Eames said, quick to come to Goren's defence. "This type of behaviour isn't typical for a gang like the Eighty-Sixers. It's either a major escalation or this is something entirely different."
Daniels jumped in too before Copa could protest.
"They're correct. These guys know that targeting an officer only brings down the whole of the NYPD on their neighbourhood. We're out in force," Daniels explained.
That meant the gang members went underground—no dealing, no business.
"This kind of thing only costs them money. I don't see Sang doing that over a low-level guy like Cho," Daniels concluded.
Gangs didn't go out on a limb for their members at the bottom. Rather, it was men like Cho that sacrificed everything to protect the likes of a guy like Sang.
"I'm telling you, it's Sang," Copa insisted.
"Why would Sang kill Quinn?" Goren asked.
Copa baulked.
"Because he's a gangbanger. A dealer. A thug," Copa hissed.
"Yes. But none of that is necessarily a motive for murder," Goren pointed out.
"He's a psycho," Copa repeated. "He's bad. Dangerous."
Bobby scratched at the back of his neck. He began to fidget as he studied the board.
"It just doesn't add up. Why would Sang kill Quinn himself instead of sending one of his minions out. Isn't that the point of being the leader?" Goren pondered.
Copa fumbled, grasping for an explanation. He clenched his fists in rage. His face began to turn purple.
"Because… because," Copa spluttered.
Suddenly, he squared his shoulders and sneered.
"You may not believe me. I know all about you and your crackpot theories. Wasted time. We'll just see what the Chief of D's thinks," Copa threatened.
Eames stepped forward to intervene.
"I really think we ought to look into Sang before we jump to any conclusions," she cautioned.
Copa marched right past her into Ross's office where Chief Moran and the Police Commissioner were discussing the case.
No matter how hard Eames and Goren tried to convince the room that it was premature to go after Sang, they found themselves yelling a wall of brass. Daniels even backed them up—and he was the expert on that turf.
None of it made a difference to the Chief of D's.
There was too much pressure to close the case quickly.
The Commissioner himself gave the order for a SWAT team to descend upon Sang's flat. Goren and Eames would ride along. Daniels was going as well to provide vital intel. And (much to Goren's chagrin) Copa had been given permission to join.
Eames and Goren were in the corner by their lockers, gearing up in their black NYPD tactical vests.
"This is a mistake," Goren muttered.
A beat passed as Eames laced up her trainers. Usually, she was fazed wearing low heels. Hell, she'd spent years working undercover in Vice in situations much more dangerous and shoes that much less functional.
But she wasn't about to storm into a flat with SWAT at her back in heels.
"Probably," Eames replied after a moment.
The four rode together in an SUV out to Queens. Copa insisted on driving and could not be talked down from that position.
Copa pulled out his phone as they were en route.
"What are you doing?" Goren asked.
"I'm gonna call Theresa. Tell her we got the son of bitch."
"Maybe we should wait?" Eames suggested.
Daniels and Eames were in the back. A dark look passed between the two of them. Copa was in no emotional state to be a part of this operation. He was liable to hurt Sang—and that would jeopardise the whole case.
"We don't have any evidence yet that links Sang to the murder scene," Goren pointed out.
Copa's head whipped around.
"Are you calling me a liar?"
"No. I'm just saying that—"
"You sayin' my ID is no good? What? That I should have been in the car with Quinn too?" Copa demanded.
"Can you… can you keep your eyes on the road?" Goren asked.
"I can see just fine," Copa hissed.
In fact, Goren took note that Copa appeared to rely on his peripheral vision more than anything else. However, it was evident that Copa still struggled. His driving was erratic. There was an instance where Goren braced the hand grip for fear that they might ram the car in front of them when a traffic light changed.
Copa slammed on the brakes and the SUV screeched to a halt.
It was raining by the time they returned to Manhattan.
NYPD officers lined both sides of the long pavement leading into One Police Plaza.
In spite of the rain, they had waited for the perp walk—a tradition whenever a cop killer was hauled in.
It made Goren uncomfortable.
Eames too.
The team quickly processed Sang's arrest and gathered additional bodies for a lineup.
"It's not Sang," Goren said quietly to Eames.
She didn't respond.
"You know this is wrong too," Goren went on.
There wasn't time to dwell on it. Eames's phone went off. She was surprised by the number.
"Theresa Quinn."
"You should take it. I've got this," Goren assured her.
Eames glanced up at the house ahead. She knew every inch of that home. She'd spent so much time there over the years—cooking out in the backyard, double-date game nights.
Her bridal shower had been hosted by Theresa in that very front room.
Now it was surreal to be back after all those years in between.
Eames knocked on the door. There was a time when she would have just walked in. No invitation was needed.
She was greeted by a young boy and realised that this was Quinn's son.
Eames had not seen him in person since his birth.
"Hi. You must be Joey. My name is Alex. Is your mum home?"
"I know who you are," Joey replied.
He opened the door and stepped back to let Alex inside.
"I'm named after your husband. That's why my dad says… said," Joey corrected himself.
Alex's breath hitched.
She had, of course, already known that Kevin Quinn had named his son in honour of Joe—and that it was a bit of a sore spot with Theresa.
Theresa appeared in the doorframe that led to the kitchen.
"I didn't think you'd really come," she remarked.
"Um… I can go if you've changed your mind," Alex assured her.
She didn't want to pressure Theresa. She knew exactly how confusing grief could be.
"No!" Theresa said quickly. "Please don't go."
Theresa and Alex sat down in the front room. Joey asked if he could go outside to play. Theresa was grateful for the breathing room. She had tried so hard to keep her emotions in check, not to break down in front of her son. She didn't want to frighten him.
Eames wasn't sure where to start.
She had not spoken to Theresa in almost a decade. At a loss, Eames decided to keep things professional.
"Any strange calls to the house?" she asked tentatively. "Or um… late night drive-bys? Cars rolling by slowly? Or parked out front, scoping out the place?"
Theresa shook her head.
"Had Kevin gotten any threats?"
"Like he would have told me," Theresa chuckled. "You know how he was. Always had to be the protector. Didn't want to scare me about the job."
There was a team of people back at 1PP digging through all of Quinn's cases. Thus far, there was nothing in his case history to indicate a disgruntled suspect or recently paroled convict with a grudge.
At least, nothing beyond the usual levels.
All of a sudden, Theresa broke down. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed freely for the first time in hours.
"I'm s-s-sorry."
"I'm here," Alex said as she put her hand on Theresa's back.
"No."
Theresa looked up at her old friend. Her expression was full of regret. Theresa took hold of Alex's hand.
"I was so awful to you. You didn't deserve that."
Alex waved her off.
"Don't sweat it. You're going through the unimaginable. You have no reason to apologise," Eames assured her.
"I don't mean back at hospital," Theresa clarified.
She groaned. It was painful to talk about, but necessary to address. She had been so riddled with guilt ever since seeing Alex again.
"I mean, I do. That too. I was angry and you were there. But what I meant… I was talking about before," Theresa said.
Detective Copa stood in front of the glass.
The Chief of D's, Captain Ross, Detective Goren, and several uniformed officers were present.
On the opposite side of the glass, a lineup consisting of Sang and men of a similar build filed in.
"Take your time, detective," Chief Moran said.
Copa turned to the side and nodded at Moran.
"It's him. Sang," Copa said.
He started to pace back and forth.
"Um… the ID?" Ross prompted.
They needed a proper identification—not just an accusation.
Goren watched with keen interest, observing Copa's every move. Once again, Copa turned to the side and studied the suspects with his peripheral vision.
"Number three," Copa announced.
"Good work, Detective!" Moran announced brightly as slapped Copa on the shoulder.
A look passed between Ross and Goren. Ross could feel it too—something about this arrest just didn't add up.
Unfortunately, there was no plausible alternative theory and Copa had made a positive ID.
"Alright, book Sang," Ross ordered.
The brass had what it wanted—a quick and painless investigation. Ross and the rest were quick to file out of the room. There would be a press conference to announce and a meeting with the District Attorney's office.
The media were already on standby.
Goren hung back. He caught Copa on the way out of the room. Copa looked irritated.
"We got him. It's over," Copa said.
Goren shrugged and flashed Copa a disarming smile.
"Just some loose ends," he said. "A couple of questions. You and I both know that attorney's find an inconsistency and then a guy walks—"
"Fine," Copa agreed.
"About your bathroom break…"
Copa visibly reacted—cracking his neck in anger as he shuffled his weight from foot to foot.
"Every time I see you, you ask me where I took a leak," Copa spat.
"Yeah."
Goren could argue with that.
"But I wouldn't have to play potty police if you'd just been honest with me. Believe me, there's a lot better leads I'd be chasing," Goren said.
Copa sneered.
"You said you went up to a chicken place a street over. But the thing is they were closed that night. The health department shut them down," Goren explained.
Copa blanched.
"You're checking my alibi? You think… what? That I had something to do with this?" Copa scoffed.
"Did you?" Goren asked bluntly.
That was Copa's cracking point.
"I was in a car up the block. With Rita," Copa confessed. "I didn't do a damn thing to get Quinn killed. HE WAS MY PARTNER!"
It was obvious Goren had struck a nerve.
"Rita?"
Copa was embarrassed to admit his friendship with Rita.
"I'm not sleeping with her. We're just… we talk, okay? She's a badge bunny. Met her at a cop bar. She was sniffing around for a detective," Copa admitted.
He closed his eyes. A pained look cross his face.
"She's writing a book," he said.
"And she listened," Goren surmised.
Copa nodded.
Goren couldn't fault Copa for that.
"You can tell her things that you can't tell your wife, is that it?" Goren continued calmly.
Bobby had to keep his voice steady and treat Copa like a friend, a man-to-man chat. His usual dance routine wouldn't cut it with a guy like Copa.
"I'm not sleeping with her. I would never do that to my wife," Copa asserted.
"And that's why you were afraid to say something before. You were ashamed," Goren gathered.
Goren promised that he would not betray that confidence. He needed to confirm Copa's whereabouts—and wanted to check if Rita saw anything—but didn't see a need to push any further unless it raised a red flag.
"And Sang?" Goren asked. "How far away were you when you saw him?"
Copa shrugged nonchalantly. He didn't see why that mattered.
"I dunno. Staring right at him from across the car," Copa answered.
Goren turned away and began to pace.
"Because earlier at the scene, you told us you were about twenty feet from the car," Goren reminded him.
He stopped and spun around. His hand covered his tie clip.
"Describe my tie clip," Goren instructed.
Copa frowned.
"What?"
"Tell me about my tie clip," Goren requested again. "You're a cop. You're trained to pay attention to details. Describe it."
Goren moved in close, making a point of staying in front of Copa's line of vision even as the Detective tried to turn.
"It's much brighter in this room than it was that night," Goren went on.
Copa was at a loss.
"You turn to the side to see better, right? You have a problem with your vision straight-on, isn't that right?"
Copa's scowl was confirmation that Goren had stumbled onto the truth of the matter.
"I saw it when you identified Sang. There's a blind spot in your vision. It can be an early sign of macular degeneration," Goren explained.
"My partner was murdered. Sang is a thug. But you only seem to care about where I fucking piss and my damn eyesight," Copa fumed.
Goren could not, in good conscience, put an innocent man in prison for a crime he didn't commit.
Goren was furious about the injustice of it—and the wasted hours.
"Regardless of what other crimes Sang is guilty of, he didn't commit this one," Goren said.
"He's a gangbanger. A criminal. We take Sang off the street, that's a win. That's what Kevin Quinn would have wanted," Copa insisted.
Goren leaned back against the table in the corner.
"Yeah? Well, maybe we should wait to put him in prison until we actually catch him doing something," Goren countered.
From what Goren had gathered, Quinn was a straight shooter—a fact that only made Copa more uncomfortable when Goren raised the subject.
"Now, we both know that you did not see who shot Quinn," Goren said. "And everything I've learned about Quinn tells me that he would want you to be honest."
Copa's jaw went tight.
"You know what, man? Screw you," he snarled.
Alex sat patiently as Theresa fixed them both a cup of coffee. She offered to do it, but Theresa wanted to do something other than just sit around and grieve. She needed the work to clear her mind.
"I remember telling you after Joe died that I'd always be there," Theresa said as she futzed about the kitchen.
"It's alright."
Alex was starting to grow uncomfortable. She hadn't come to talk about Joe.
"When you needed us most, I abandoned you," Theresa went on.
"Really. It's alright. People grow apart," Alex responded.
It took all of her self-control not to lob a chair across the room and scream.
You damn well did!
Instead, Alex kept her mind focused on the investigation. Catching Quinn's killer could never make up for his loss, but it could bring some degree of closure.
"Is there anyone you can think of that might have wanted to hurt Kevin?" Eames asked.
Theresa laughed.
"Pick a name. He put a lot of people away."
"Right," Eames nodded.
Theresa poured Eames a cup and passed it along.
"Do you still take it black? Or do you want any sugar? Milk?"
"This is perfect. Thank you," Alex replied as she reached for the mug.
In a flash, it was like being right back in the same kitchen a decade earlier. Alex and Theresa used to spend hours talking.
"I'm so sorry, Allie. And there is nothing I can say or do to ever make up for what I took away from you," Theresa said.
Alex set her mug down and took a deep breath. Sooner or later, they would have to address what happened between them.
"We don't have to do this right now," Eames said. "I just want to be here for you, okay? We can talk about anything. It doesn't have to be Kevin. How's work?"
Theresa's face grew warm. She started to cry again.
"How can you sit there and be so… so kind after what we did?" Theresa asked through thick tears.
Alex sighed.
"It was a long time ago. Everything happens for a reason," Alex said, attempting to rationalise it.
Eames likely never would have wound up in Major Case or had her nephew, Nathan, if things didn't shake out the way they did.
Another thought crossed her mind.
Or Bobby.
There was a pained look etched on Theresa's face.
"I ruined your life," she said.
Alex shook it off—but she averted her eyes.
Yeah, you did. You really did. She thought.
"It wasn't that bad," she lied.
What a lie it was.
Alex had been just shy of her thirty-second birthday when she lost Joe.
She was widowed—drowning under the weight of a mortgage, mourning the loss of dreams that would never come to fruition, pregnant.
And alone.
Eames leaned over the counter. It finally felt like the right time to ask a question she'd wanted to raise for nine years.
"Why did you do it?" Alex asked.
She wasn't angry—she was hurt.
Captain Ross was just wrapping up a phone call with the Chief of NYPD Media Relations.
"Yes. Yes, I'll keep you posted," Ross said.
He spied Goren hovering near the edge of the glass.
"Thank you very much," Ross said.
He hung the phone on the receiver and beckoned Goren to come in.
Goren entered and quietly shut the door.
His tell was obvious. There was no eccentric energy or thrill of catching a suspect in a lie. Rather, Goren looked forlorn.
Ross had come to know that look. It foretold that Goren was about to lob a flaming cocktail right into their case.
Goren was usually right. That didn't make things easier.
Ross braced himself for the worst.
"Captain?" Goren began.
Ross lifted one eyebrow as he studied Detective Goren's expression.
"Why don't I like that look?" Ross asked.
Bobby flipped open his binder and dropped his attention to the page.
"You're not going to like this, Captain," he said simply.