Author's Note: Thank you for your continued support on this story.
There's reference in this chapter to a past moment between Eames and Goren after 9/11. There will be a flashback showing this scene in a later chapter.
Content
Just like any category of crime, arson is multifaceted. It's far too complex for me to try and cover each and every component for the purposes of a fictional story.
This is not an analytical treatise on arson.
In true Law and Order fashion, this is a police procedural drama first and foremost with snippets of facts on the psychology of arson sprinkled on for flavour.
Plot Notes
There are a few lines re: Alex and Joe that I use in Like a Stone. I'm smitten with them and so they crop up here too.
It is not my intention to turn this into Alexandra Eames "Launcher of a thousand ships."
This budding relationship with Billy, the flirtation with Louis, and Bobby's comments about Father Mark all serve a purpose in this story that will become apparent as the plot unfolds.
Eventually, we'll reach storylines that include Bobby's past & present lovers (or rivalries with quasi-romantic overtones). These relationships help inform his character.
Eames/Goren is the centre focus—it's just a long, slow burn.
'Casey Creek' is a West Wing reference.
Major Case | One Police Plaza | Manhattan
"Thanks," Eames said as a uniformed officer passed her a file.
Alex flipped open the page and skimmed through the contents.
"The report from the lab. From the granary fire," she said.
It would take time before they had information on the fire that happened that morning. The FDNY was still combing through the rubble to gather evidence.
Goren looked up from his interview notes and watched Eames for any clue as to the contents.
"They found… wow."
Alex raised and lowered her eyebrows to indicate the news wasn't good.
"It's a real hodgepodge of accelerants. Gasoline. Isopropyl alcohol. Acetone. Turpentine. Erm… naphtha—"
"Camping fuel. White gas," Bobby said. "Could be an outdoor enthusiast? Or maybe just hoarded whatever he could get his hands on."
Eames dropped the file. Her face soured.
"This is gonna make it hard to track down where it came from," Eames said.
"Arsonists tend to be young. The profile—they're not well adjusted. Isolated. Spotty work history. Our arsonist could be living on the streets himself," Bobby theorised.
"He could have collected these accelerants. A lot of people don't dispose of that stuff properly," Eames remarked.
"Yeah," Bobby agreed. "Or he's smart. And he wants us to think this was a pathological, thrill-seeking arson."
Eames wasn't ready to rule it out. As senior partner, she had the final say in what theory they presented to the Captain.
"There were locks at the granary too. It was just like the hotel. The company that owned the granary kept a lock and chain on the outside. Security by the docks checked it every night. But multiple other locks were found inside—all types. Different chains. Bike locks."
The FDNY included a memo to inform NYPD that they were sending a team back to the scene of the granary fire for a more complete investigation.
Alex passed the file across to her partner. She turned back to her computer.
"I'm still waiting for the full records on that property. So far in my search, I've found no sales, no inquiries. It's been on the market for ages," Eames said.
She scrolled down through her electronic notes.
"Last sale was in 1984 to a group called Save the Tulip. They were a nonprofit trying to restore the building. Oooo—"
Eames hissed.
"Looks like they got a bad deal on the money to buy the property. They got swept up in the Savings and Loan scandal in 1986. Never recovered. The group dissolved in 1987, and the property was sold off to East Manhattan Savings to cover their debts. Bank's had the property since," Eames said.
"So, maybe a bank like East Manhattan Savings would have more favourable odds to sell the lot if it were empty?" Bobby suggested.
Eames took a sip of her coffee before responding.
"Except they've been collecting a historical preservation credit from the state of New York for the last decade," Eames said as she read the information on screen. "And boy do I wish I had that property tax exemption."
A knowing look passed between the pair.
"Money's not the motive," Bobby said.
"Doesn't look like it," Eames agreed.
Goren slammed his fist on his desk.
"Dammit!"
Detectives Pike and Fisch jumped as Bobby's hand came down, rattling his mug and sending the stapler off the edge.
Eames didn't flinch—she'd been expecting it.
They were informed shortly before lunch that one of the victims was a young child. The boy was still clinging to life. The fire had deprived his brain of oxygen, and it remained touch and go.
Cases involving children struck Goren particularly hard. He'd been in a foul mood all morning.
"Hey, we'll find him," Eames said.
"This guy's not gonna stop until we do," Goren warned.
Captain Deakins stepped out of his office and caught the attention of his two lead Detectives.
"That was the Captain over at the three-six. He says he thinks they've got our guy. Head over there and check it out," Deakins ordered.
Goren was up in a flash. Eames snagged her coat and the keys to the SUV.
NYPD 36th Precinct | Garment District, Manhattan
"Alright, let's go over this again."
Two men sat across from one another inside the interrogation room.
The first was a greying Detective. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands atop the table. His once robust linebacker physique had given way to age and stress (and too many polish dogs). His hand bore the faded line of a wedding band.
Most NYPD officers didn't wear them on the job.
The faded line was the clue he was still married rather than divorced. Robert Goren surmised the man's wife was likely the one who had turned the cuffs on his sleeves. In truth, the Detective could do to go up a shirt size. He probably couldn't afford it on his salary.
The second man wasn't much older—even if he looked it.
Years of hard living had prematurely aged this man. He was lithe, his face drawn and his eyes sunken from malnourishment.
The man's posture indicated that he was comfortable. It likely wasn't his first time in a police interrogation room. And the way he readily drank the coffee provided made clear he wasn't afraid of any possible DNA implications.
Yes, Robert Goren catalogued all of it.
He couldn't help himself. He analysed everything. It was a trait he'd been unable to shake since childhood.
A trauma response.
Bobby paid attention to all the minute details because he recognised that they told an important story. It was a survival skill, one that had served him well.
And it was why Bobby was so fixated on the suspect behind the glass.
The ballcap on the man's head told Goren more about the man than his threadbare coat and the shopping cart of supplies confiscated by NYPD.
But it was his hands that told Bobby what he needed to know.
"He's not the guy," Goren said suddenly.
The Captain at the 36th frowned.
"He's not the guy," Goren repeated.
"He's confessed!" the Captain protested.
Goren laughed in a manner that only irritated the Captain.
"Of course, he confessed!" Bobby said as if they were discussing basketball scores. "He's been living on the streets for years. And he knows that eventually we're gonna piece together it's not him—"
Bobby ran his hand back through his hair and smiled.
"But right now he's inside. It's nice and warm. There's hot coffee. He's got a place to sleep for a few days," Goren went on.
"He confessed," the Captain insisted. "His coat sleeve is singed."
Goren shook his head dismissively.
"Look at his hands. He's got arthritis. There is no way this guy could have barricaded those properties. All the locks? He doesn't have the dexterity for that," Bobby pointed out.
Someone would have seen him long before he could have started the fire—particularly with all the traffic at the hotel.
Indeed, the suspect's hands were swollen and twisted. He couldn't lay them flat on the table. He had trouble even gripping the cup of coffee. It was obvious from their claw-like appearance that he'd suffered from arthritis for years.
"He probably singed his coat trying to stay warm," Goren surmised.
"He had a lighter on him when he was taken into custody. And a can of heating oil. Tried to hide it from my officers."
The Captain was not going to budge.
"How do you explain that, huh?"
"Well, it is December in New York," Eames said dryly.
"Hi, Mr Parks. I'm Detective Goren. This is Detective Eames," Bobby said as they entered the interrogation room. "Would it be alright if we spoke to you?"
Mr Parks shrugged.
"Sure. Whatever."
Goren and Eames slipped into the two chairs across from the man.
"You're hat. You were in the Marines. First Battalion. You served at the tail end of Vietnam," Bobby said.
Mr Parks nodded. His relaxed demeanour faded a little. He sat up straight and eyed Goren carefully.
"We know you didn't do this," Bobby said.
"Of course, I did! I'd have to be mad to confess to something I didn't," Parks replied.
He crossed his arms and turned his attention to the wall.
"I may be homeless—but I'm not crazy," he huffed.
"We know you didn't do it. You couldn't have. Your arthritis alone would have made it impossible to fit all those locks," Goren said.
Mr Parks dropped his hands to hide them under the table.
"I'll make a call and get you into place for tonight. It's in Brooklyn but—"
"I am not going to a shelter!" Mr Parks roared.
"Okay. Okay," Bobby agreed in a calm voice.
Parks shifted in his seat. The thought of going to a shelter was distressing.
"Is it because something bad happened to you in the past at… at a shelter?" Bobby inquired.
"Too much theft goes on in those places. And I don't have any interest in moving into one of those 'transitional' programmes," Parks said with disapproval. "I can't leave Roger more than a few days."
"Who's Roger?" Alex asked.
"My dog."
At Goren's request, a uniformed officer brought in a fresh cup of coffee and some lunch for Mr Parks.
"Would it be alright if I took the other half of this sandwich with me?" Mr Parks asked.
"Go ahead," Bobby replied.
"Thanks," Parks said.
He carefully wrapped it in a napkin and pocketed the other half.
"Roger's alright. He never wanders far. But he got hit by a car. He can't always… well, he needs help. He's got trouble eating," Parks explained.
"It's a good thing he's got you looking out for him," Bobby remarked.
Parks shrugged.
"I bet you see a lot down there," Bobby continued, working to build his rapport with Mr Parks.
"Yeah. I guess," Parks replied.
"Are you familiar with the Golden Tulip Hotel. You ever stay there?" Bobby asked.
"I know the place. I don't go there," Parks answered.
Something in the tenor of Parks's voice indicated there was more to the story.
"Why?"
Parks held up his hands. Best as he could, he displayed an upside-down triangle.
"Right," Eames said.
She'd seen plenty of the mysterious hieroglyphs during her time in Vice to understand the basics.
"We'll have an officer take you back. Would it be alright if I gave you my card? That way if you think of anything, you can call?" Goren inquired.
Only Eames noticed Bobby slip his card and a twenty-dollar bill into Parks's coat pocket.
Magic fingers.
"Hobo code. That's a blast from the past," Eames said.
They were back in the SUV, stuck in traffic as they inched their way down to 1PP.
"Well, he's a relic of a bygone era," Goren said.
"The last of the great American hobos?"
"He probably travelled up and down the Eastern seaboard. But now he's getting older. It's harder to move and he's landed here," Bobby said.
"Hobo retirement. Too bad the benefits aren't better," Eames quipped.
Out of the corner of her eye, Eames noticed that her partner was doodling on his notes. He drew the same symbol that Mr Parks had flashed them. Bobby stared at it, trying to make up his mind.
"It's erm… it's been a while. This is 'danger' right?" Goren asked.
"No. It's more like 'this place is too crowded.'" Eames explained.
Bobby glanced over at his partner and quirked his eyebrow.
"What do you think the chances are Mr Parks isn't the only person that knows that?" he asked.
"Word travels fast. Places get a reputation," Eames said in agreement.
"And if somebody wanted to target a place with a lot of people…"
Bobby left his thought unfinished.
"We need to speak with Father Brennan," Bobby said.
2:14 p.m. | Saint Anthony's | Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan
The church was still bustling with activity when Eames and Goren arrived that afternoon.
Rescue workers and teams from the FDNY and NYPD filtered in and out—using the meeting rooms to coordinate their investigation while the kitchens turned out sandwiches and soup.
Volunteers kept the hot coffee coming as uniformed officers and firefighters stopped in to warm up while they took a break from sifting through the ashes.
Father Brennan was working over in the shelter next door when they arrived.
"We're sorry to pull you away from your work," Goren said.
"It's alright. I could do with a cup of tea. You two look like you could use one as well," he replied.
In short order, the three were settled in Father Brennan's office. He plugged an electric kettle in and arranged the mugs while Goren laid out his next steps.
"If you could help us identify—"
Father Brennan waved his hand as he poured the tea.
"I cannot give the NYPD a list of places to go trampling into," he said, dismissing the idea.
Bobby did not look up from his binder. He kept his attention fixated on it, occasionally flipping through pages of notes as he clarified his request in a relaxed drawl.
"Well, w-we don't want to rip these people from their homes," Bobby explained. "But I think we need to consider the possibility that whoever's behind this may have chosen the Golden Tulip because they wanted to target somewhere with a lot of people."
Father Brennan passed them both a steaming mug of tea before he sat down behind his desk. He took a slow sip as he mulled over the proposal. He still wasn't entirely convinced.
Eames could tell it was time to step in. She often played translator between her partner and the public.
"If we knew where these… hotspots were, then we could assign people to watch them. Extra patrols. Officers in key areas. We can coordinate with the fire department. We'll be ready if they try again," Eames said.
Father Brennan shook his head in dismay.
"I appreciate your concern. I really do. But all you will do is create a wall that prevents these people from accessing their only safe space to shelter. What will they think when they come home to find the NYPD guarding the doors?" Brennan asked.
Bobby shifted in his seat. He dropped one leg to cross them in the opposite direction, his heavy foot resting atop his knee.
"We'll make sure to place plainclothes officers. We'll give them a wide berth," Goren offered.
A long, exasperated sigh escaped from Father Brennan's throat.
"Your officers are not as subtle as you think," he said. "And some of these folks… well, they're so paranoid about the NYPD that they'll be spooked."
Eames's phone buzzed in her coat pocket. She checked the caller ID and spied it was Deakins.
"Excuse me," she said to Father Brennan as she flipped open her phone. "Eames."
Alex got up from her chair and stepped out into the corridor to take the call, leaving Goren alone with Father Brennan.
"Father, now we know some of the areas where these people congregate. But you have a… a relationship with this community. One that my partner and I? We could never establish that," Bobby prefaced. "You don't want to betray that trust. I understand. I respect it."
Goren leaned forward in his chair.
"If you can't help us identify possible targets, do you have a way to get the word out on the street?
"You think that someone targeted these people?" Father Brennan asked, horrified.
"Or that their presence… that whoever did this wasn't concerned about the possibility their actions would harm others," Goren said. "Murder isn't usually the end goal of arson. They're typically young. Impulsive. Poor social skills. But—"
Goren paused. A dark expression crossed his face.
"Someone with that lack of impulse control, that need—it's like a junkie looking for the next hit. Lives are a secondary concern. And you know. You see it. To a lot of people here in the city the homeless are… well, they don't see them as people," Bobby acknowledged.
Father Brennan nodded solemnly.
Before he could respond, Eames poked her head in the door.
"That was the Captain. We need to go," Eames said.
Goren thanked Father Brennan for the tea and snatched his coat.
"Detectives, wait," Brennan said, catching them just as they were about to leave.
Eames and Goren paused in the doorframe.
"About your proposal. I hope you're off to catch this guy. But just in case, we'll spread the word," Brennan said.
Robert Goren had a total of thirteen partners during his tenure with the NYPD—including a record six in one year.
None of the previous twelve had the same skill to manoeuvre a two-ton SUV through Manhattan traffic with the speed and efficiency of Alex Eames.
"Local PD and ATF are gonna meet us on the ground in Weehawken," Eames explained.
She tossed her phone to Goren so he could read through the information Deakins sent via text. Bobby flipped open the device and frowned.
"Erm… how do I pull up the—"
Alex reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear—a move she did whenever she needed to politely look away so Goren didn't see her face of annoyance.
Bobby Goren was many things. Technologically proficient was not one of them.
"Adam Leechwood. Twenty-two." Eames said.
"Well, he fits the age in the profile," Goren agreed.
As she turned for the tunnel, Eames filled Goren in on her phone call with Deakins. As it turned out, the authorities over in Jersey were already investigating a recent burglary. A truckload of supplies had been pinched from a manufacturing company.
"They make cabinets. Shelves. That kind of thing. Perps stole paint thinner, lacquers, varnish," Eames rattled off.
"All the flammable stuff," Goren said.
Alex nodded.
"Security tapes got the plates. They traced the truck rental back to this guy and he popped in the system," Eames shared. "A string of priors—including a stint for arson. Third degree."
"Why ATF?" Goren asked.
Alex scrunched up her nose in disapproval.
"Because while he was paying his debt to society, Mr Leechwood got in deep with a group that's been on their radar. Some kind of doomsday cult," she answered.
Goren visibly tensed. Memories of scenes like Waco, Ruby Ridge, and Casey Creek came to mind. He feared what might transpire.
"Look, if these people are a separatist group or religious zealots or… or anti-government fanatics, we need to be careful. We could play right into their hands if ATF storms in," Goren warned.
"ATF warned Deakins they've got a stockpile of weapons. All legal, but enough to trip the radar for more than few government agencies," Eames said.
Goren looked at Eames hard, wordlessly conveying his concerns about rushing that kind of situation.
"Look, I'm not thrilled about this either. But ATF invited us in as a courtesy. And I don't know about you—but I'll be glad to have them there if things turn sour," she remarked.
They rode in silence the rest of the trip.
Eames switched off the sirens and flashers as they approached the scene. They didn't want to tip off their suspect.
An impressive interdepartmental force was already amassed. Preparations to establish a perimeter were underway.
They pulled up a block from the house and Eames threw the SUV into park. Bobby reached for the door handle. They would have to snag their vests from the back and suit up before they checked in with the incident commander.
"Wait," Eames said.
Goren turned back to his partner. Alex did not immediately speak.
"Eames?" he prompted softly.
"Let the negotiators handle any—"
There was a flutter of something in her eyes, concern perhaps, as she gazed at Bobby.
"Just let them handle it, alright? Don't go… doing what you do, you know?"
The corner of Goren's lips curled up into a smirk as he studied Eames. She was flustered.
"What I do?" he inquired.
Eames made a face.
"Don't get in their way. They've been watching this guy for a while. Just promise me you won't barge your way in to try and talk him down or something," Eames ordered.
"Would you feel better if I wait in the car, mum?" Bobby asked.
Eames climbed out and slammed the door harder than intended. Bobby knew he had to rectify things.
"Look, I don't try to storm my way in. I tap dance," he said.
Alex promptly threw his vest at him.
"Oh, please. You're a bull in a China shop. And what's worse is you like being that way," Alex said.
She threw her coat in the backseat in a huff and then slipped on her body armour vest. Eames shivered. She hoped things wouldn't turn into a long standoff.
"A bull," Bobby mused.
He knew she was right. He did take up space. He pushed his way into situations and threw his weight around to intimidate perps, glean information, or force the hand of unwilling witnesses.
Most people were too afraid (either of his size or temper) to check him on that.
Most people weren't Alex Eames.
"Don't give me that look," Eames warned, catching him out. "They don't need your size thirteen feet trampling all over their investigation."
"You're worried about me. Worried I'm going to put myself in danger," Goren said.
He called attention to what neither acknowledged, to the unspoken current between them. Bobby couldn't help it—he wanted to know, to tease it out of her.
"You really are. You really are worried about me," he said with an irritating, knowing smile.
"I don't want to do the paperwork," Eames replied without missing a beat.
6:37 p.m. | Sylvia's Diner | Weehawken, New Jersey
Three hours.
Eames and Goren had spent three bloody hours outside in frigid temperatures waiting in the hope of catching their arsonist.
A trained negotiator and ATF personnel scrambled to meet the demands of Mr Leechwood and his buddies.
All the while, agents fanned out to get eyes and ears inside the unassuming house that was their compound.
To buy time, the negotiator offered to feed them. Leechwood demanded pizza and thus an elaborate scheme was born.
SWAT was on the scene. The house was gassed.
And after all that, three measly twenty-somethings were pulled away from their video games and case of beer.
At present, they boys were downtown waiting for mummy and daddy's high-powered attorneys to ride in and save the day.
Leechwood and his radical pals were nothing more than trust-fund kids posing as radical zealots to stick it to their parents.
They had no legitimate ties to any radical organisations. Though they had amassed a stockpile of weapons and dangerous chemicals, their plans seemed to start and end with burning down a yacht that belonged to Leechwood's daddy.
It was still a crime. The boys were undoubtedly both dangerous and foolish.
But they weren't responsible for the arson fires across the river in Manhattan.
Leechwood had a solid alibi. He'd been meeting with his probation officer at the time of the fire. His buddies also couldn't have pulled it off. One was at work and the other had been in jail on a drunk and disorderly.
Eames and Goren weren't angry though.
The outcome was the best possible they could have hoped for. No one was injured.
Bobby had been fully braced for a horrific minimal loss scenario. It was a relief the situation played out as it did—even if it meant three hours freezing their arses off.
Alex didn't want to fight the worst of the Holland Tunnel rush hour traffic. So, they decided to stop at the nearest diner.
They could warm up with hot coffee, snag dinner, and take stock of where they were at on the investigation.
Alex Eames slowly stretched and retracted her fingers. They tingled painfully as the feeling began to return.
Goren had his own hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, allowing the heat to radiate into his own chilled skin.
"Here," Bobby said.
Bobby didn't wait for an answer. He reached for Eames's hands and held them in his own, covering them with the heat he'd siphoned off the mug of coffee.
"Mmmm."
The groan escaped from Alex's throat before she could stop herself. Eames froze, suddenly aware of their close proximity.
The intimacy wasn't lost on Bobby as he held her hands.
They had been close before—posing as lovers and siblings and all manner of undercover associations in the course of an investigation.
The one and only time they had ever been so close without the premise of ruse had been little over a year earlier in the fraught hours after the towers fell when the city was nightmare, and the world was upended.
Life as they knew it was shattered.
Time seemed to stop.
And the only thing Bobby had been certain of was uncertainty itself.
There was a brief moment between them, a point in time when Bobby first noticed there was something more to their partnership.
It was not inherently romantic, nor could he be certain that was the intention.
It also wasn't the spark—but it was the moment Bobby first became aware that he cared for Alex Eames.
It was also when Bobby realised that Alex Eames was his partner and that she considered Goren her partner too.
She wasn't afraid of him. She didn't run away like all of his previously assigned partners. Eames trusted him.
It was only a passing moment—but Bobby couldn't shake it.
In the year that followed, that memory increasingly occupied his mind.
Their partnership hadn't always been easy. Goren was pig-headed and difficult. He was broody. Misunderstood. He hyperfixated when it wasn't appropriate and struggled to prioritise—sometimes focusing so relentlessly on an angle that it wasted time and resources. He was one more bad personnel review away from dismissal.
Eames was no peach either.
She had a sharp tongue. She was sarcastic and cynical, so very bitter about the world that she was always looking for the catch in everything. Bobby could have sworn she carried a pin around just for popping balloons.
Their investigative style clashed—particularly in the early days of being assigned to Major Case.
But something shifted after 9/11.
They were like neighbours that had opened their doors (just a crack), peering into each other's lives as they sized one another up from across the corridor.
Goren still couldn't entirely sort out if his feelings were romantic or simply a deep connection, a bond of mutual understanding.
He surmised it really didn't matter. Either way, there was a thread between them.
Eames had still not pulled her hands away.
Bobby couldn't see the tips of her ears. They were covered. But he surmised they were cold too under that curtain of sleek fringe, probably just as cold as her nose.
It was red from the frozen air.
When Bobby was a child, his mother would kiss the tip of his nose whenever it was red right before giving him a stern reminder to keep his scarf up.
As they sat across from one another, hand in hand, Bobby wondered what Eames would do if he leaned over and kissed the tip of her nose.
Eames would probably pop him squarely on his own schnozz and Bobby would deserve it.
He grinned at the thought. His face flushed.
Eames watched his expression change, she noted the goofy smile and the rising colour in his cheeks. Her eyes went wide.
Eames quickly recovered. She retracted her hands in a flash.
She looked mortified.
"Oh erm…"
Bobby stammered, fumbling for an excuse in an attempt to misdirect, to throw Eames off from confirming that Bobby's thoughts had been exactly where she suspected.
"No… no, I erm… I was just thinking about something my mum used to say when it got cold."
It wasn't entirely untrue.
Eames was bothered. Goren could tell from her stiff posture and the way she sought to put distance between them. She slid her own coffee close and then pulled her hands to her lap, safely out of his reach.
A twinge of guilt crept into Bobby and settled like a weight in his chest. He felt awful for making her uncomfortable. There was another emotion too, a sense of loss in knowing that the thought of intimacy with her partner was off-putting.
At least Bobby knew where things stood.
On cue, their server appeared with a tray of food. Eames snatched away a bottle of ketchup before Goren could swipe it.
He put his hands up in surrender.
She set it down harder than intended at the back of the table, hard enough to shake the salt and pepper and packet of sweetener.
"Just wait," she ordered.
Bobby tried to hide his grin as he realised what she was up to. Eames grumbled as she picked up their shared basket of chips and removed her own portion before Bobby got hold of them.
"You could have just told me you don't like ketchup," he said.
"You drown them," Eames said.
"I prefer malt vinegar," Bobby replied.
Eames smirked. It did not go unnoticed by her partner.
"Yeah?" Bobby prompted.
"Nothing," Eames replied innocently.