Author's Note: Thank you for all your support on this story.
We're moving toward the end of the Smile/Amends endcap.
There's a lot of Eames/Goren angst right now in this arc. In many ways, S7 was the height of that in the show.
Trust is such a major facet of their relationship (shipped or platonic) that I think the theme of betrayal and emotional buildup to stories like Frame and Lady's Man strike all the right chords.
This story falls during the period when Fallacci was in for Wheeler. However, I didn't want to complicate the story with another character. Fallacci's run on the show was so short that I've chosen to just ignore it altogether for this fic.
Friday
Bobby arrived late to work that morning.
All week, Eames held her task for meetings promptly at 9:00. Goren came in late to avoid questions about his absence. It was easier to explain that Goren was working a separate investigative track if he wasn't brooding at his desk.
That was just fine with Eames—she didn't want Goren impeding her own investigation.
He was too personally attached to the case (and to Eames's primary suspect, Miss Leslie Le Zard). Goren's judgement was clouded.
Eames had not shared that opinion with anyone—including Captain Ross. Alex Eames was loyal to a fault.
Goren strolled into the squad room and was surprised to find Captain Ross leading the task force meeting.
Eames's coat wasn't on her chair. Her work bag was gone. Goren flipped open his phone. There were no messages.
Bobby sat back at his desk and frowned. In spite of the rough week, Eames had still kept Goren in the loop. All week, she had clearly communicated whenever she was heading out to conduct interviews, meet with the local precinct in the Bronx, or chase down a lead.
They had nineteen more cases of people (mostly children) poisoned by the counterfeit SnoMint.
The task force meeting adjourned. Ross poked his head out the door and beckoned Goren to step into his office.
Bobby braced himself for a dressing down. He'd not yet submitted notice of his intention to leave Major Case, but Goren had no doubt that Ross could read between the lines. The fractured relationship between Goren and Eames was obvious to everyone.
Eames was the only thing that kept Goren tethered to reality. When the Goren storm surge flooded into the Major Case squad room, Eames was the barrier, the only thing that prevented him from wreaking catastrophic damage.
Without her, Bobby was adrift between the devil and the deep blue sea.
Goren watched through the glass as Reynolds, one of the uniform officers on the task force, passed a report off to Wheeler.
"Detective Wheeler has taken over the task force while Eames is on leave," Ross announced.
Goren nodded slowly. He played it cool in an effort to avoid appearing stunned by the blow. He didn't want to give Ross any further hint that there was tension.
"Well, she mentioned she might take some time."
"I'm sorry. I want you to know that it wasn't my call," Ross added.
At this, Goren visibly tensed.
"My hands were tied, Detective. Orders came down from the top," Ross explained.
"What? Because of the Beltran case?"
The DA's office had made it clear they didn't want there to be even a whiff of prejudice.
"It didn't help," Ross acknowledged. "It's all about perception, Detective. The NYPD is under immense pressure from the public to close this case. The task force hasn't produced any credible leads yet. The Chief of D's feels that—"
Goren didn't follow.
Ross paused as he studied Goren's confused expression. Dann sighed.
"I don't blame her. Eames has my full support—and I made that very clear upstairs. But your partner has been under a lot of pressure," Ross said.
"Captain, what are you talking about?"
"The complaints," Ross said.
He passed Goren a file. Eames wasn't the kind of officer to garner complaints. That was Goren's department.
Goren's dark brow furrowed as he skimmed the contents. Then he laughed.
"Come on, this… this isn't—"
He trailed off and grinned in disbelief.
"Captain," Bobby said knowingly. "Eames is strictly by the book."
"It's out of my hands, Detective," Ross said.
It was obvious from the tone of his voice that Danny Ross was just as unhappy about it as Goren.
Ross stuffed his hands in his pocket. His eyes narrowed as he observed Goren.
"You didn't know," Ross realised aloud. "You and Eames haven't discussed this."
Goren remained silent. His mind reeled. He just couldn't fathom that Eames was the one placed on suspension.
"There will be a formal hearing, of course. And I've assured the brass and Detective Eames that she has my complete support," Ross said.
A formal hearing.
Bobby couldn't accept that. Because deep down, he knew that this was the moment he'd feared. Eames's career was in jeopardy—and it was all Bobby's fault.
He'd been the one that encouraged her to make Beltran's arrest. He'd pushed to go along, to see it through to the end.
"There's been a slew of complaints about the task force's lack of progress on the investigation. Concerned citizens, the city council, consumer advocacy leagues, public safety groups—you name it. Public pressure is mounting," Ross said.
"So, Eames becomes a sacrificial lamb to sate the bloodthirsty masses?" Goren asked in disbelief.
Ross put up his hand to stop Goren before he could launch into a monologue.
"She's not going to lose her badge. But what do you know about this FDA complaint?" Ross asked.
The final blow to Alex Eames's month from hell had come in the form of an official complaint from Marty Palin's office regarding Eames's behaviour toward the FDA staff.
"This is Schorr," Goren insisted. "Eames must have… she must have gotten too close to something."
"I agree. That's why I want you to pick up where she left off," Ross ordered.
Ross had thrown his weight around to spare Eames a formal disciplinary hearing. The brass at 1PP were none too happy about her role in Beltran's arrest—especially now that the investigation had turned into a press case.
The FDA complaint was just the icing on the cake.
"This was Schorr. And I'm gonna prove it," Bobby declared.
One Week Earlier | Major Case Squad Room
"Working late?" Mike Logan asked.
"You too?" Eames replied with a wry smile as she pulled on her coat.
"Just came from Our Lady of Mercy," Logan said.
Eames stuffed her hands in her pockets and nodded in understanding. She'd been advised by Logan earlier that day that the community in Queens had rallied to hold a prayer service for Manny Beltran.
It was just the latest stop on his public press tour. Danielle Melnick's strategy included gaining mass public sympathy for Beltran.
"I heard he's gonna be on the news. Some big interview," Logan said, giving her a head's up.
Eames visibly stiffened. She moved to go, but Logan caught her shoulder.
"We're gonna get him," Logan promised.
Alex sniffled. She felt foolish for crying in the middle of the squad room—she just couldn't hold it back anymore.
"I'm sorry," she said softly, thumbing away her tears.
"Don't apologise," Logan replied.
"I just… I feel Manny Beltran has been made into this great community martyr and… and Joe's been lost in all of this. Like nobody cares that… that he's the one that's gone," Alex sobbed.
Instead of taking off his jacket, Logan reached for the binder of notes that he took home each night.
"Come on," Logan said.
"Oh… no. I can't," Eames replied, shaking her head.
Logan paused and turned, flashing Eames a knowing look.
"I wasn't asking."
Fannin's Pub | Lower East Side | Manhattan
"Melnick's gearing up for a fight. She's issued a slew of pretrial motions," Logan said.
"Hmm."
That was all Eames said in response.
"Sorry. We don't have to talk about the case. I can't imagine what you're going through. I just thought since you weren't at the courthouse… if it's too hard to—"
"I can't go," Eames said.
Logan nodded slowly in understanding.
"Right. It's okay. It's hard to—"
"No. I can't go," Eames clarified.
She kept her attention fixated on the bourbon in front of her. Her fingers slowly ghosted up and down along the side of the glass.
"The DA's office has requested that I steer clear. I guess it's the only hope of salvaging this case."
Eames glanced up from the table and managed a tight smile.
"To get justice for Joe, I can't be there to support it," she shared.
It hurt in a way Alex couldn't begin to describe. Ron Carver kept Eames apprised personally. But it wasn't the same. Alex couldn't help but feel she was betraying Joe in some way, dishonouring his memory.
His only legacy now was his role as a slain NYPD officer.
And that was the real tragedy—because Joe Dutton was so much more than that.
Alex sat back in her seat. A grumble of frustration escaped from her throat.
"I just thought that… that—"
Alex paused.
"Manny Beltran just seemed so sincere in his desire to make amends."
The ready confession, the refusal of counsel. It all pointed to a man that was desperately seeking to repent for an act that had weighed on his soul for too long.
"I suppose it's only natural he would change his mind. Probably a great relief just to say it aloud for him," Eames lamented.
She reasoned Beltran had now had time to process what happened, what awaited him—even if sentenced under juvenile guidelines.
"I think Beltran is. Sorry, that is," Logan said to Eames's surprise.
Alex raised an eyebrow, prompted him to spill what he knew. Like her partner, Mike Logan had a knack for reading people. Eames trusted his instincts.
"It's the fiancée. And his Aunt. The family. He's under a lot of pressure from them. They've convinced him to go to bat," Logan said.
Alex couldn't argue with that.
Beltran was the first in his family to go to university. He had a bright future ahead of him.
"Well, I suppose. He represents all they've accomplished. He's… he's their American dream. They have a lot to be proud of, I guess," Eames concluded.
"And more on the way," Logan said.
"Right. I'm sure his fiancée doesn't want a jailhouse wedding," Eames remarked.
"It's a little more than that. She's pregnant," Logan said.
And just like that it all made perfect sense.
"Eames?" Logan prompted.
She seemed to be lost in her own thoughts.
"Oh," she replied softly.
Alex did not elaborate. She couldn't.
She didn't even want to try and unpack what it felt like to know that Manny Beltran would get to enjoy all that he'd taken from Joe.
Knowing that Danielle Melnick would use that very dream of family and children and fatherhood to sway the jury.
Joe got a bullet in the stomach. It was a cruel end to his short life.
Alex got an empty home and a mortgage she struggled to pay on her lone salary and the pittance provided by her survivor benefits.
Manny Beltran would get his dream wedding and his loving family. He could salvage his career. He had a baby on the way. His whole life was ahead of him.
Probably a fucking book deal too. Eames thought bitterly.
"Anyways, that's why he's backing off the repentance act," Logan said.
Alex took a breath to steady her nerves. She would need to process this information—and she certainly couldn't do that in the midst of the pub.
"I erm… I shouldn't even be talking about the case," Eames said.
It was half true. She'd been instructed to keep careful record of any requests to discuss the case. Logan and Eames weren't talking about specifics. But it was a convenient excuse to change the topic.
"Then we don't talk about the case," Logan agreed with a nonchalant shrug. "Your mother-in-law… she's erm… she's a real piece of work."
That earned a wry smile from Eames.
"Oh, you have no idea," Alex said.
Interstate 495 | Long Island
The old Robert Goren would have spent his Friday night alone. He'd be home pouring over case files and researching SnoMint competitors with a bottle of cheap whisky.
The new Robert Goren had strolled out of Lincoln Centre with Leslie Le Zard on his arm. And when she'd flashed him that smile and suggested a spontaneous trip to the Hamptons—who was he to say no?
Bobby was scheduled to be off for the weekend. Ross had insisted on it given their recent heavy caseload.
Bobby offered to pick Leslie up, making his excuses about jumping at the chance to take his Mustang out of the city for a bit.
It added significant time to their trip for Bobby to ride the train to Brooklyn and drive back to Manhattan to pick up Leslie before they left the island again. But it was necessary.
Bobby didn't want Leslie to see his dingy flat.
Or worse, Frank.
They didn't hit the road until 9:30. It would be after midnight by the time they reached Montauk.
Bobby didn't care.
The cool breeze of the open road was invigorating. Leslie looped her fingers through Bobby's hand. She rested her head against his shoulder as they sped along in the dark.
Bobby glanced down at Leslie. She grinned and squeezed his hand.
Leslie said her friend had a little place in Montauk.
Her friend was the CEO of one the largest food manufacturing companies in the world.
The 'little place' was a sprawling nine-bedroom, seventeen-million-dollar waterfront property.
The shower itself was bigger than Bobby's whole bathroom in Brooklyn. And all fourteen of the jets had done wonders for Bobby's aching back.
Lord knew he needed it after Leslie had finished with him.
They'd missed the Friday night cocktails, but Leslie promised a Saturday full of art galleries, bird watching, and beaches.
With Leslie at his side, Bobby felt wonderful as he sank into the oversized bed. He was out in a matter of minutes.
Eames found sleep elusive. She remained awake in bed, counting the cracks on the ceiling as she tried to suppress thoughts of Joe and the endless spiral of 'what if.'
She couldn't allow herself to go down that road.
Alex turned her attention to the window. It was early spring. The chill of winter still clung to the air.
The dark, churning waters of the Atlantic were eerily still that night.
Alex had grown up along the shores of the Hudson River in Inwood. Her experience with New York's waterways were that they were dangerous, smelly, and a great place to hide a body.
It was Joe that loved the ocean and convinced her that buying a fixer-upper out on Rockaway Beach was worth it.
In time, Alex had come to love the ocean too.
Her home and her beach were her refuge. Eames could sit and watch for hours—the birds, the ships, the waves.
Even the water itself looked so peaceful in the moonlight.
Alex absentmindedly stroked her necklace as she watched the waves below.
110 miles away, Robert Goren was staring at the same ocean.
Hours earlier, he had drifted off to sleep feeling totally at ease. It had been far too long since he'd slept the whole night through with a warm body at his side.
Bobby glanced down at the woman curled up in his arms.
She was sound asleep, stretched across Bobby's bare chest. Bobby wished he could get up and take in the view properly from the large windows that overlooked the Atlantic.
But Leslie was fast asleep. She looked too peaceful for Bobby to try and move her—even if his left arm was starting to go numb.
Suddenly, Bobby was hit with a wave of discomfort. Eames's words from weeks earlier echoed in his mind.
I like comfortable. People undervalue comfortable.
Goren tore his eyes away from the view and back to Miss Le Zard.
She was lovely.
Educated. Hardworking.
Bobby shared her zeal for public service (and her taste in music). She knew her wine and her art.
They'd spent the whole car ride discussing the recent launch of the New Horizons space craft and the potential it offered to study the Kuiper Belt.
Leslie wasn't something—she was all of that.
And she liked to dance.
They were already making plans to hit up a salsa dancing joint Bobby was familiar with in Soho.
It astounded Bobby how well Leslie Le Zard fit into the life he wanted. Bobby could just kick himself internally because he should have been grateful to find someone like Leslie.
And yet…
Bobby missed Eames.
He missed the way their bodies fit together, the way she slipped perfectly in the crook of his shoulder.
He missed the sound of her breathing, the way the dim light from the streetlamp outside his flat mimicked moonlight, the way it caught the light in her hair.
Bobby missed the way Alex smelled. He longed to bury his face in her hair and soak in the soft, familiar scent of lavender.
Leslie smelled like high-end perfume. It wasn't unpleasant—just different.
Eames was lavender and fresh linen and the sugary body scrub that clung to her skin.
Eames smelled like home.
Home!
For the first time all night, Bobby's thoughts drifted to Frank. Frank was still in withdrawal (and would be for a few more days).
Bobby had not even given a moment's thought to Frank before making his decision to jet off to Montauk.
Frank had still been on the sofa, curled up under a blanket. There was food in the house. Bobby hadn't left Frank any cash. He couldn't risk Frank using it for a hit.
In any case, Bobby would be back Sunday evening. Surely, Frank could take care of himself until then.
Bobby's mind wouldn't rest until he checked on Frank.
Goren carefully reached over to the nightstand. He was mindful to minimise any movement so as not to rouse Leslie as she slumbered atop his chest. Bobby felt around in the dark for a moment before his fingers finally closed around his mobile phone.
Leslie stirred.
She groaned. Her hand shot out from under the sheet and felt along Bobby's arm until she realised that he'd reached for his phone.
"What's wrong?" she asked in a hazy voice.
"Nothing. Nothing I just… I can't sleep," Bobby said.
It was partially true.
A second later, Bobby felt Leslie's hand on his face. Her lips ghosted across his chest and shoulder, over his neck, and along the line of his jaw.
"I can take care of that," Leslie murmured as she kissed just shy of the corner of Bobby's mouth.
Under the sheets, her free hand traced the muscle along his thigh. Bobby's breath hitched.
Yes, he was going to need those shower jets again.
Sunday
By Sunday morning, Alex wasn't feeling any new clarity. If anything, she felt even more conflicted.
Desperate for a distraction, Eames flipped on the television. She'd avoided the news all week. She figured the Sunday morning news shows were a safe bet. In any case, they were all politics.
The subject usually only served to depress Alex—but she needed to take her mind off the case.
"I don't want my child to grow up without a father."
Eames froze midway through pouring her morning coffee.
It was the voice of Manny Beltran.
She glanced across the room at the television. Sure enough, there was Manny Beltran with his fiancée seated on the morning news couch. As if on cue, Beltran instinctively clutched her hand. They shared a sad smile.
"This isn't about me. It's about my family."
Alex hissed as hot coffee spilled down over the counter and onto the floor. Her socks were uncomfortably wet. She was lucky she hadn't burned her toes.
Eames was compelled to deal with the spill before reaching for the buttons. She mopped up the coffee while Beltran got his fifteen minutes on Sunday Morning New York.
"I made a terrible mistake. I killed that officer. And I don't want to make excuses—but I know what happens when you grow up without a father. When you turn to bad influences. Look up to the wrong people," Beltran continued.
Stuff it. Eames thought.
In her opinion, there were plenty of people who grew up without a father (or terrible fathers) and made better choices. Robert Goren was the first name that popped to mind.
At least, he usually made better choices. Eames thought bitterly.
Alex sat back on her knees. She didn't know whether it was curiosity, compassion, or some form of self-punishment that drew her attention to the television screen.
Manny Beltran paused and took a shaky breath.
"I won't do that to my child." He sniffled.
Unfuckingbelievable.
Eames hauled herself to feet and scowled as she rung out the coffee-soaked flannel in the sink.
Up to that point, Alex had intentionally avoided the news since Beltran's arrest.
She was tired of hearing about how bright his future was, how it was such a shame that a young man would go to prison over a long-since dead cop.
She couldn't pass a newsstand without seeing reports of the public sympathy that had rallied around Manny Beltran.
She was sick of hearing about how handsome Manny Beltran was, about all his good works for the community, and all the lives Beltran might save.
Because Joe Dutton had been young and handsome and dedicated to his community too.
Joe Dutton saved lives.
His idea of taking a walk on the wild side was late-night hot wings. Joe's bad choices included refusing to part with a flannel shirt that was long since past its prime, dancing in public, and the sweaty post-run embraces he insisted on giving his wife.
Eames was a ball of anxiety. Her stomach was physically distressed from the tension.
On instinct, she reached for her phone. She was about to dial Bobby when she stopped, her finger hovering just shy of her most-dialled number.
She wanted to talk about it, to mull over the situation with the one person she knew wouldn't judge her, with the person that knew how complicated it was. She wanted to talk with the only person that wouldn't offer a platitude.
The person that wasn't afraid to ask questions.
The one person she trusted.
Alex swallowed her reservations and hit to send the call. She waited with the phone pressed against her ear as she counted the seconds.
Hello. You have reached the voicemail of Robert Goren, NYPD, Major Case Squad…
Bobby and Leslie were at breakfast when his phone went off. It buzzed, shaking against the saucer of coffee.
Goren dropped his fork and rushed to reach for his phone. He hesitated to answer when he saw it was Eames.
A concerned look crossed Leslie's features as she eyed Bobby.
"Something wrong?"
"Erm…" Bobby scratched at his eyebrow. "It's… it's my partner."
"The case?" Leslie prompted, concerned.
Goren let the call ring through to voicemail. Eames did not leave a message—nor was there a text to follow.
"No," Goren replied, turning back to his breakfast.
Leslie brought her teacup to her mouth and then paused. She returned the cup to its saucer and then sighed. Bobby looked up from his plate.
"Robert… Bobby," Leslie said knowingly.
He raised his eyebrows, wordlessly encouraging her to elaborate. Now that she had his undivided attention, Leslie spoke.
"If this is about the case or if something has happened, I would hope that we share the kind of relationship where you would tell me," Leslie said.
She reached across the table for Bobby's hand, clutching it tight.
"I'd like to think that we're partners in this," she added.
Bobby glanced down at their hands. Leslie stroked her thumb across his.
"Marty Palin needs to be held accountable for this," Leslie insisted. "If your partner has an update regarding Marty—"
"She doesn't think he did this. At least, not alone," Bobby interjected.
In fact, it was the one thing that Eames and Goren could agree on.
Leslie was stunned.
"He covered this up. He's probably the reason Jim Kettle is dead. He's an incompetent, bumbling idiot. Don't you see? He's trying to protect himself because he knows that he's going down for this," Leslie contested.
Goren shrugged.
"Yeah. He is incompetent," Goren agreed. "And I have no doubt he tried to cover this up. But this… this took skill and planning. Orchestrating a murder, hiding the trail. Palin doesn't have the chops for that. Someone is pulling his strings."
"Jim Schorr."
For a moment, Leslie's accusation hung in the air.
"It's been two weeks! How many more children need to die because the NYPD is sitting on its hands instead of arresting Palin?" Leslie demanded.
"We have to pursue all leads. We have to be sure that—"
"I gave you the emails," Leslie cut in. "How much more evidence could you possibly need?"
The emails painted a damning picture. They proved Palin knew about the tainted product. They also proved Palin asked Kettle to keep hi informed.
In Goren's opinion, Palin made a grave mistake by failing to issue a recall.
But it didn't scream murder (nor did it implicate Jim Schorr).
Their lack of action was negligence at best.
"We need to pursue all the leads and clear any other suspects before whatever army of expensive attorneys Schorr rolls out can't cast reasonable doubt," Goren continued. "It's police procedure."
Leslie stabbed at her grapefruit harder than expected.
"You mean that your partner buys into Schorr's act. She really thinks guys like him care about the public," Leslie remarked.
The statement took Goren by surprise.
"It seems clear to you and me what's going on here. But as she's the senior partner and she's leading the task force…"
Leslie trailed off.
"What do you mean?" Bobby asked.
"I just mean that… well… I'm sure she worked very hard to get to Major Case," Leslie said.
Leslie's comment almost landed like one of Nichole Wallace's backhanded compliments.
Leslie put her fork down and then glanced up to meet Bobby's eyes. A pained expression crossed her face.
"From the outside, it's easy to get the impression that she's just around, well… she's like a sidekick. I don't mean to put your partner down. It's just that—you're so brilliant, Robert. You should be the one leading this investigation," Leslie said.
Without another word, Leslie turned her attention out the window. It was a crisp morning, but warm for early Spring. The skies were clear. The waves of the Atlantic rolled gently against the rocky beach below.
Before Bobby could find his voice, Leslie spoke again.
"We should go for a walk on the beach before we have to drive back," she suggested. "Do you like to hunt for agates?"
Can we talk?
Goren stared down at the text message.
He wasn't in the mood for another scolding from Eames over his budding relationship with Leslie Le Zard.
Bobby didn't care if it went anywhere.
For the first time in ages, he was having fun.
Between the job and caring for his mother, it was hard to meet anyone. Bobby had been out of the dating circuit for more than a decade.
He missed spending time with someone. He missed casual conversation and dancing and laying about in bed with nothing better to do.
Leslie offered him a taste of that again, a taste of the things he couldn't share—would never share—with Eames.
There could never be any Tuesday night salsa class or Saturday morning grocery run. They would never share a home or holidays or the quiet domesticity of folding socks in front of the television together.
That was her life with Joe.
And it was something Bobby would never have.
At least, not with Alexandra Eames.
Leslie had breathed life into a dying man—and Bobby wasn't ready to let go. It was the reason he'd ploughed right past the red flags in a desperate attempt to feel again.
Goren flipped his phone shut and stuffed it back into his pocket just as Leslie returned from shoreline. She'd seen him check his phone again.
Leslie slipped her hand into Bobby's as they walked along the beach.
"It was your partner again, wasn't it."
It wasn't a question.
"Does she normally call you this often on your day off?" Leslie asked.
Bobby hesitated.
"I mean, you already pour yourself into your work as it is. Isn't that a bit much to expect you to serve at her beck and call on your day off?" she asked
"It wasn't about the SnoMint. Different case," Bobby said.
"And she doesn't have a life outside of work? A family?"
"Her husband was a cop. He died in the line of duty," Bobby answered.
"Recently?" Leslie asked, her voice ticking upward in an attempt to sound ignorant on the subject.
The question should have struck Goren as odd. Leslie had already readily confessed to doing her research on Goren and Eames before turning over the whistleblower emails. She had known every aspect of Goren's service record.
A search that detail would have drawn attention to Joe Dutton's case—and Eames's involvement in Beltran's arrest. After all, it had been splayed all over the news for the last few weeks.
Instead, it blew right past Bobby.
"No. A decade ago," Goren shared.
"She never remarried?"
Bobby shook his head.
"That's why she leans on you. Why you're her first call on her day off."
Leslie's statement was not a question. She clucked her tongue with false sympathy. Goren visibly tensed.
"Oh! Oh, I didn't mean anything by it. I just sensed there was more between you. A closeness," Leslie assured him.
"Detective Eames is just my partner. We're not that close outside of work," Bobby said, unsure if he was trying to sell Leslie or himself on that line.
È Tutto Pepe Deli | Brooklyn Heights | Brooklyn
Eames was ready to turn back and go home as she waited in line. The door was close. Tempting. As she gave her order to the clerk, she was certain she had lost her mind.
And as she smiled and swiped her card, Alex knew Goren would certainly think so.
Eames stepped out of the deli and glanced across the street at the brick building she knew well. Sack in hand, she debated taking the food and driving up to Inwood instead. No doubt old Johnny Eames would appreciate the hot soprassata and paper-thin prosciutto layered between the pillowy seasoned loaf that È Tutto Pepe was famous for.
He didn't need the cholesterol—Eames didn't either.
But she was a mess.
A long run and a soak in the tub hadn't been enough to clear her head. Alex had cleaned her house top to bottom—scrubbing the baseboards, cleaning the windows, waxing the car.
Even her favourite book wasn't enough to turn her mind off for a bit.
Eames's thoughts were preoccupied with Manny Beltran, the trial, her career.
Joe.
And Bobby.
Desperately seeking comfort, Eames jumped in her car and drove across town to a good deli and some much-needed carbs. It was, in fact, one of the many places Bobby had introduced her to.
It was his favourite deli in Brooklyn, and it did not disappoint.
Alex climbed the steps to Goren's flat with her sack of food in hand. If he was in no mood to talk, she could always feign that she had just stopped by to check in.
I know you're taking care of Frank and probably busy. I was on my way to my dad's. Thought I'd just drop this off in case you hadn't eaten.
She rehearsed the excuse in her mind over and over until she was in front of Goren's door.
Eames took a breath and then knocked.
She didn't even wait a full second before determining Goren wasn't home. Eames moved to go—and then she heard it.
There was a loud 'crash' as someone stumbled toward the door. It was followed a moment later by a yelp of pain.
There was no way Alex could turn back now.
The door creaked open. Frank poked his head out. His knuckles were white as he clutched the doorframe for support in order to stay upright.
"Detective Eames?"
Frank clamped his mouth shut. Alex dropped the bag of food and rushed to the door. She knew exactly what dry heaving looked like.
Sunday Night
Bobby parked in front of Lelsie's building and let his car idle.
Leslie leaned in close across the gear stick. Her breath tickled as she grinned against Bobby's ear.
"I had a great time this weekend," Leslie murmured.
She kissed his cheek.
"And I can't wait for the benefit tomorrow," she added softly.
Jim Schorr was hosting a benefit to raise funds for the families impacted by the counterfeit SnoMint. Leslie had secured an extra ticket for Goren to attend.
"Should I pick you up?" Leslie offered.
"I'll erm… I'll be at One Police Plaza," Bobby replied, flustered.
He was on edge as Leslie futzed with the buttons on the front of his shirt, popping the first two before she smoothed the collar.
"There. That's better," Leslie said with a smile.
Robert Goren was always buttoned up. He kept his trousers pressed and his shirts starched. The G-man look was as much a part of his person as his library card.
Leslie promised to pick Goren up before the benefit. She mentioned she would have a car service swing by.
She lingered longer than necessary, teasing Bobby with the closeness of her presence—and then slipped away right before Bobby could pull her back.
"And any news about the case—any news at all—call me. Please."
With that, Leslie disappeared into the glass high rise building she called home.
Bobby threw the car in gear.
He felt twenty-two again, the same eager boy he'd been on leave that first summer in Germany in 1983 when Bobby Goren felt like his best days were still ahead of him.
He took the long way home, cruising the streets of Brooklyn. Bobby didn't want the night to end. He didn't want to go home to his dingy flat and Frank and the responsibility that weighed on him.
He wanted to cling to the illusion a little longer.
Eventually, Bobby did have to go home.
He found Frank on the sofa—and a sack from the deli on the counter.
Frank followed Bobby's line of sight to the fresh bread on the counter, wrapped in its signature striped sleeve from the deli.
Frank figured Bobby assumed the worst. Before Bobby could ask, Frank threw off the covers and tried to explain.
Only Goren didn't need to hear it. He already knew.
"Eames was here," Bobby said.
It wasn't a question.
"She figured you were busy taking care of me and, well…"
Frank left the rest unsaid.
Bobby was only half listening anyway as he opened the fridge and studied the new packages that had appeared—sliced deli meat, jumbo pickles wrapped in wax paper, peppers soaking in their tangy brine, a family-sized salad.
"I didn't tell her where you was. I mean, how could I?" Frank chuckled. "I just said you'd stepped out was all."
Bobby hadn't told Frank where he was headed. Frank only knew that his brother was off for the weekend—and leaving with the woman Eames and Bobby had argued about.
Frank did not press the issue.
"She didn't stay," Frank added. "She didn't ask about that erm… that other woman. And I didn't tell her about you were out of town."
Bobby said nothing as he passed Frank on his way to unpack.
"She's a good woman, Bobby," Frank called after him.
Bobby slammed the door to his bedroom hard enough to shake the paintings on the wall.
Monday | Squad Room | One Police Plaza
In retrospect, Goren should have known on Monday that the week was going to hell.
Things were unusually quiet in the squad room. Everyone was on edge, fearful of making too much noise or acting too cheerful.
Thompson, who sat at the desks directly adjacent, was celebrating his birthday.
No one dared utter a word of celebratory greetings or bring a cake into the canteen. Thompson didn't mind in the slightest—he felt bad just for the fact his birthday had fallen on such a day.
Everyone had seen Beltran's interview on the local news the day before.
Then that very morning, Beltran was in the spotlight as national news carried a fresh interview with the handsome young doctor.
Bobby found the atmosphere disconcerting. For Eames, it was suffocating.
That afternoon, Eames was called into Ross's office for a brief conversation—likely updating him on the case. A few minutes later, she emerged and threw on her coat. Eames reached for her bag and that was how Goren knew she was heading out for the day.
"Thanks for dropping off the food. What do I owe you?" Bobby asked, fishing for his wallet.
"Nothing," Alex replied with rehearsed nonchalance.
"Heading out for the day?" Goren inquired.
"Yeah," Eames replied.
Goren was grateful when Eames finally left.
He wasn't the only one.
Monday Evening | Schorr Residence | Midtown Mahattan
Robert Goren knew that he should have told Eames he was going to the benefit.
He knew from the moment that he caught sight of his partner step into the room of Schorr's party.
Captain Ross had come too—accompanied by ME Rodgers.
Schorr wanted there to be no doubt that his pharmaceutical company was fully supportive of the NYPD and its investigation.
Bobby was only half listening as Leslie paraded him around the room, schmoozing with friends from the EPA.
Bobby's attention remained fixated on his partner.
Eames nodded politely to Mr Schorr. She kept a tight smile fixated on her face as she surveyed the room. Though she accepted a glass of wine from a server, it remained untouched in her hand.
She was out of her element—Bobby could tell even from across the room.
It was strange to be in such a place with Eames and not be with Eames.
He missed the banter. He missed her presence. Goren could just imagine them in the corner, surveying the scene together. Bobby would provide informative commentary. Eames would follow with delivery a well-timed remark courtesy of her signature dry wit.
Leslie followed Bobby's line of sight across the room to where his partner stood awkwardly at the edge of the party.
Bobby's feet instinctively moved to carry him across the room. Leslie's arm shot out to stop him.
"Where are you going?"
"Oh, erm… excuse me. My Captain," Bobby said, pointing at Ross.
"And your partner. Schorr must have invited them. He's hedging his bets. Pretending to be cooperative," Leslie said.
"I should erm… I should say 'hi,'" Bobby said.
He slipped away and made a beeline for his partner—stopping only to snag a glass of liquid courage from the nearest tray en route.
"Detective," Ross said as Goren approached.
Bobby nodded to Ross and Rodgers.
"I wasn't aware you were coming tonight," Ross said.
He was surprised (and concerned) by Goren's presence.
"Please tell me you're here on the up and up and that you did not crash Jim Schorr's benefit?" Ross asked quietly.
Bobby responded with a bashful smile.
"No need to worry, Captain. I'm here legitimately," Goren assured him.
Eames could sense the Captain's scepticism and decided it was time to step in.
"Detective Goren has been working a different angle of the case. I believe it was Miss Le Zard that put him on the list for the event," Eames said. "He's been doing some digging on the FDA angle."
There was no malice in her voice. She wasn't accusing Goren of impropriety. In fact, she was covering for him.
Ross didn't quite buy the excuse. Eames's line was just a little too smooth. Something about the timbre of her voice sounded the alarm bell in the back of Danny Ross's mind. Once again, he was concerned that Alex Eames was covering for her partner, that she had willingly stepped into another situation where Goren was dragging her career down like dead weight.
Danny Ross did not wish to dwell on the why.
"I should say 'hello' to the mayor," Ross said.
With that, Ross and Rodgers slipped away to join the rest of the party. For the first time since Friday, Eames and Goren found themselves alone.
They stood in silence for a moment before Bobby found his voice.
"I don't need you to lie for me."
"What was I supposed to tell the Captain? That your girlfriend got you a ticket?" Eames asked.
Goren stuffed his hands in his pockets and dropped his gaze to the floor.
"I should have told you I was coming."
"Makes no difference to me. What you do outside of work is your own business," Eames said.
Bobby glanced over at his partner.
"C'mon, Eames. You're miffed I didn't tell you. That's fair," Bobby said. "I should have told you about it. I just… I didn't want to get into another discussion about suspects."
"You mean Leslie."
Goren felt a flash of anger. Eames didn't mince words. She knew just which spot to hit.
"It's why you called this weekend. Why you dropped by Sunday. You wanted to convince me that she's involved in this, that I'm making a mistake… making a fool out of myself," Bobby said.
"Oh, please," Eames snorted.
"Naw, naw, naw," Bobby replied, shaking his head. "You think this is some midlife crisis. That I'm… I'm coping with the stress from the job, from my mother, Frank—"
There was certainly a list to rattle off.
"You think I'm trying to compensate for the fact that I'm pushing fifty and haven't… well, I don't have—"
Bobby paused.
He felt a pang of emptiness. Voicing it aloud hit home how truly alone he was.
"I'm in my prime, Eames. I've finally realised that I've got a lot left to live for. And I want to live for it," Bobby shared.
Bobby was at a charity benefit surrounded by artists and intellectuals, titans of industry, and some of New York's most interesting characters. For Robert Goren, it wasn't about status or wealth. He could care less about material things.
He was surrounded by culture.
The thrill came from conversing with such people, from having intelligent, meaningful conversation about psychotherapy, environmental sciences, and Wolfgang Tillman's photography.
"You think I'm rushing into a relationship with a young girl as some kind of machismo flex," Bobby went on.
"You're the one that said it."
"Well, age has nothing to do with it. I mean, sure. Leslie's young. But she's educated. Successful. Beautiful," Bobby went on.
"Funny that Yale has no record of her," Eames reminded him.
Bobby didn't have a smart remark in response and Eames knew she had caught him with that one.
"She's got an ex. Have you considered that maybe she changed her name?" Bobby suggested.
"You tell me," Eames threw back without hesitation.
Once again, Bobby didn't have an answer. Leslie had only mentioned an ex in passing when the subject of her Soho penthouse came up. Bobby had no idea if that meant an ex-husband.
In fact, they hadn't spoken much at all about Leslie's personal life. Their time together had been a whirlwind of Bobby's favourite passions. He knew next to nothing about Leslie's life before the FDA.
"How much do you really know about her?" Eames asked, concerned.
"Did you run a full background check before you climbed in Joe's bed?" Bobby retorted.
Eames ignored it.
"You've only known her for a few weeks, Bobby."
"And I haven't seen anything to indicate that she's a fraud. C'mon, Eames. We've dealt with imposters before—good ones too," Goren said. "You can't fake that kind of class, the education. She's got the pedigree."
"Hmm. Pedigree," Eames mused with a simpering laugh. "Shades of Nichole Wallace."
"Don't," Goren warned.
Eames downed her drink in one go.
"You don't have to try anymore," she said. "You've won."
Goren cocked his head to the side as he eyed his partner. He didn't follow.
"You wanted to push me away. I've watched you punish yourself for too long. You're right, Bobby. You are in your prime," Eames said. "And you deserve to do the things that make you happy. It's all… that's all I ever—"
Eames paused as she searched for the right words.
"I'm happy for you. Really, I am."
Bobby didn't have a smart remark. She was so sincere.
"You're the best," Eames said, managing a wan smile. "You shouldn't feel tethered to Major Case. You could… you could do so much more."
Her appraisal did little to bolster Goren's confidence.
"I'm glad that you know now that you are worthy of being loved," Alex began slowly.
She glanced down at herself and began to pick at her fingernails.
"I just… I guess I had always hoped…"
Alex couldn't bring herself to say it. She thought it would be different. Saying it aloud was too real, it meant acknowledging the feelings that Bobby had already rejected.
"All good things," Eames mused.
"You want to say that… that what we had, that we should let it be. Leave it as a beautiful memory."
Bobby's voice was heavy. Eames could tell by the timbre of his voice that his pauses, his inflection were not an act. Bobby really was struggling under the weight of putting words to his feelings.
Bobby had an explosive temper. But Alex knew that he was most angry, most dangerous when he grew quiet.
Goren cleared his throat.
"But you can't," he concluded solemnly. "Because it wasn't."
Alex lifted her chin and met Bobby's eyes.
The expression on her face could put a poet to shame. It spoke volumes of time, love, betrayal, and grief (as well as how conflicted Alex felt about all of it)—more than Proust ever could.
Robert Goren felt three inches tall. But before he could compose himself, Eames moved to pull away.
"Have fun tonight. It's an… interesting crowd," she added politely, scanning the room's patrons.
Feeling corner, Bobby lashed out.
"Crowd. Right. That's Luis Morales, the property magnate. And that… that's Victoria Chen, the State Senator," Bobby said, pointing to various people in the crowd. "Gitte, Agard, she's a Danish supermodel."
Bobby grinned with pride as he directed Eames's attention to the tall woman chatting with the Artistic Director from Carnegie Hall, a city councilwoman, and a Kennedy cousin.
"Good for her," Eames said, unfazed.
Goren baulked.
"She's… she's accomplished. A philanthropist. Beautiful," he rattled off.
Eames wasn't impressed.
"That dress looks like a lampshade."
Bobby spied his mark, his anger overshadowing his concern for striking right to the heart of Eames's vulnerability.
"She's also a biochemist. That's why she's friends with Schorr. You know, her dress was designed by Sfida? It's a statement about challenging the idea of femininity for the male gaze. That's why it's shapeless and the colour is… well, bland," Goren explained. "But I suppose I wouldn't expect you to know that."
Alex tensed.
"You don't read Walker or Crenshaw. You're more a working-class, school of hard knocks gal," Goren said, waving his hands back and forth to enunciate each word to mock his partner. "Your idea of feminism is based on whatever intellectual discord from the Second Wave has been watered down for the masses over the last thirty years."
"It still looks like a lampshade," Eames said.
"It's not just a seven-thousand-dollar dress, it's a work of art," Bobby continued.
"Gee, and I thought the lamps at Bergmann's were a bad deal."
Without another word, Eames vanished. She slipped away into the crowd at the party, leaving Bobby alone to lick his wounds. He should have been happy. He'd tried so hard to push Eames away.
Now that she had finally, freely acknowledged they were there—it didn't hit in the Bobby expected.
It stung.
Across the room, Leslie Le Zard watched the exchange with rapt attention.
The terrace outside was pleasantly chilly for an early spring night.
Eames was just relieved for a chance to step away from the party. There were a handful of stragglers outside smoking—but that didn't bother Alex.
She finally felt like she could breathe.
"Stuffy in there."
Eames tensed as Leslie Le Zard stepped up beside her. Leslie fished through her clutch for a cigarette—which Eames noted she kept in a sterling silver case.
"You work for the FDA, and you smoke?" Eames asked, stunned.
"Robert mentioned you weren't a fan," Leslie replied.
She paused to light her cigarette.
"Of smoking," Leslie clarified.
She'd caught the way Eames's eyebrows shot up after her first remark and took no small pleasure in setting her rival on edge.
For that was how Leslie viewed her—a rival.
Eames was Goren's last thread holding him to the NYPD, to the life he knew before. Leslie usually had to work to isolate her marks before she began. Things were easy with Goren—he'd done most of the isolating on his own (and well before Leslie Le Zard walked into his life).
"Robert says there's been problems with the investigation?" Leslie inquired.
Eames shrugged casually.
"These things just take time."
"I'm sorry," Leslie apologised.
She tried to come across as sincere. Alex wasn't sure if it was her natural reluctance to trust others, the fact Le Zard already sent her suspicion into overdrive, or because Le Zard so obviously had her hooks in Bobby—she didn't trust a word and Le Zard's apology rang hollow.
"I'm just so worried about the kids. All those children. It's a shame," Le Zard said before adding, "I urged Marty to issue a recall. People need to have trust in public institutions. That comes from transparency."
How ironic. Eames had to suppress a snort of laughter.
A long, dramatic sigh escaped from Leslie's throat as she released another drag from her cigarette.
"But these guys—men like Schorr and Marty—it's a good old boys club. You know? I'm sure you deal with your fair share in the NYPD," Leslie said.
Charm and disarm. Eames was all too familiar with the tactic. Alex decided to lean into it in the hope of gleaning some information about Miss Le Zard's elusive past.
"Mmmm," Alex nodded in agreement. "The good old boys. That would be the Yale crowd? Didn't you mention Marty and Schorr were frat brothers?"
Leslie was quick to confirm that—right along with dropping another clue about how close the two were.
"Marty means well. But he's like a dog, you know? A golden retriever. He's loyal to a fault. He'd do anything for his fraternity brothers."
"This Yale Alumni network—does it extend beyond the three of you?" Eames asked.
Leslie made a face.
"I'm certainly not a part of their little club," she said, clutching her hand to her necklace.
"I just mean, are there other Yale alumni friends working at the FDA? It's possible they might have leaned on someone to help them cover this up. If I could look at the personnel files—"
Leslie was quick to shoot down the idea.
"I don't have the authority to turn those files over. The NYPD would need to submit a formal request to Mr Palin."
"Right… but you would know the other alumni, right?" Eames pressed.
Leslie smiled.
"Do you know every alumnus from your own time at university?" Leslie asked.
Leslie's eyes went wide. She bit her lip.
"Forgive me, Detective. I made an assumption. Did you… did you attend college?" Leslie asked in a tone that indicated her question was designed to humiliate Eames.
Leslie danced around each question with a new question of her own, deflections carefully chosen to cut into a target's psyche.
And it was obvious to Eames, Le Zard was keen to deliver another one of her backhanded compliments, to flex her prestigious (albeit dubious) credentials in an effort to try and put Eames in her place.
"Bronx Community College," Alex answered.
She wasn't ashamed. An education was just that—education. And it didn't matter if that came from a prestigious university or at the poly.
Eames didn't need an ivy league degree to pad her self-worth.
"Oh! I never would have guessed. You're so articulate," Leslie said with feigned surprise.
Alex fought the urge to roll her eyes.
"And you never… did anything more with that? That's so sad! Don't you want to advance? You would make a great Captain someday. You have so much potential," Leslie went on in a simpering voice.
"No. See, I went to John Jay before the NYPD Academy," Eames said without missing a beat.
Robert Goren may have been the expert on human behaviour—but Eames was the better Detective. And she'd known that she wanted to be an NYPD Detective since she was a little girl, following that path all the way to New York's John Jay College of Criminal Justice.
If Leslie was stunned, she quickly recovered.
"I'm sorry. I just assumed, well… it must really irritate you that… From the outside, it looks like Robert is the genius and you just carry his water."
Eames didn't take the bait.
"Is that how you feel? With Palin?" Eames asked innocently.
She could give as good as she got.
"Oh, I don't do this for recognition or titles. I only care about protecting the public," Leslie insisted. "It's why I'm so worried about the investigation. You have to stop them before more children die. I mean…"
She paused and took a long drag from her cigarette.
"Who drinks mouthwash? Idiotic."
"You'd be surprised," Eames answered dryly.
Eames eyed Leslie carefully. She was stunned to hear such a comment form someone that claimed to be concerned only for the welfare of the children.
"We'll find who did this," Eames declared, watching Leslie closely for any reaction.
A shy smile spread across Leslie's face as she tucked her dark hair back behind her ear.
"That's what Robert promised. I just hope you nail Palin soon—I know Robert does too," Leslie said.
Robert.
"Well, Bobby knows as well as I do that the investigation will be what it is," Eames replied with a casual shrug. "We follow where the evidence goes, Miss Le Zard."
"Right. You're a team," Leslie said.
Alex froze.
Had Bobby told her? About them?
"Detective Goren is my partner, yes," Eames said.
She was in a tight spot. She did not want to give Leslie any ammunition to suspect the relationship was fractured—nor did she want to confirm there was more between them.
Had been. Eames corrected herself internally.
The corner of Leslie's lips curved into a sly grin. To Alex, it came across as rehearsed as if Leslie had been building toward that moment.
"But you're not as close as you were once," Le Zard said knowingly. "That's why you call him on his day off, hmm?"
Alex was at a loss for words. She didn't want to try and explain the complexity and irregular hours that came with the job—nor was she ready to admit that the real reason she'd called Goren over the weekend was personal.
"Do you ever think that maybe he wants a life outside of Major Case? Something more?" Leslie asked. "Do you ever wonder if he feels… trapped? That he's obligated to stay to be your confessor, your shoulder to cry on, to carry the weight of your caseload?"
Leslie paused.
"It's obvious you can't do it alone. You've done nothing but sit on the evidence against Palin. Tell me, Detective. What exactly is your relationship with Robert?" Le Zard pressed.
"What's yours, Miss Le Zard?" Alex asked.
Without warning, it was like a switch had flipped inside Leslie Le Zard. Her demeanour changed. Where she had once been cruel and conniving, now she appeared frightened.
Leslie shrank in on herself and blinked in disbelief.
"I… I… I can't believe that you would—"
"Oh, save it," Eames barked.
"This seems out of line, Detective. It's really none of your business. I don't know why I'm being attacked," Leslie said.
"Your little act may have fooled my partner. But I know you aren't who you claim to be."
Leslie sniffled.
"This is Marty. And Schorr. They're… they're trying to intimidate me because I'm the whistleblower," she sobbed.
"What's going on here?"
Alex cringed. She spied a familiar shadow on the floor.
It was evident that Goren had only caught part of the conversation—the part that painted Leslie golden and made Eames look like a jealous harpy.
Alex glanced over her shoulder. She recognised the look on partner's face.
She knew it from the interrogation room.
It was the same expression Goren had worn when they charged into Isobel Harrington's Park Avenue prison, the one he wore when he stormed in on Judge Harold Garret and egged him into confessing his crimes.
Eames had seen that ferocity before. It radiated off Robert Goren, the aura of self-righteous, know-it-all, smugness that made hardened criminals shiver.
Yes, Alex Eames knew that fury well.
But it was the first time it had ever been directed at her.
Leslie thumbed away crocodile tears before retreating back inside.
"What did you say to her?" Goren demanded.
Alex scowled.
"You just couldn't leave it alone, could you?" Goren snarled.
Alex watched as Leslie disappeared into the crowd and then turned back to her partner in disbelief. Eames pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed.
"You don't have the full context of that conversation."
"Context. Context?"
Goren's pig-headed attitude was enough to get Alex riled up.
"What did you tell her about us?" Eames hissed.
"I thought your suspicions about Leslie weren't about that?" Bobby asked in response.
"They're not!" Eames insisted.
The pair stood in silence, staring at one another. The balcony of Schorr's penthouse was oddly fitting for the scene. The two partners were, in every way, standing at a precipice.
Because Alex Eames could give as good as she got. If Bobby were to lash out, it would only end in mutually assured destruction.
But at that moment, Alex Eames was the one thing standing between Robert Goren and the illusion of happiness.
And Robert Goren was a desperate man.
"She's using you," Eames said.
Goren chuckled and nodded as he ran his hand through his hair.
"Well, you would know."
He stepped over the edge and went into his dance.
"It's why you can't build meaningful relationships, why you punish yourself. You hide behind the banter, joke that your speciality is married liars."
Eames treated her lacklustre dating life like a running gag.
"It's why you seek men that you know damn well have no interest beyond… beyond a smash and dash. It's why you turned to me."
Bobby let his comment hang in the air as Alex stood there, allowing his scathing character assessment to wash over her.
"I'm comfortable," Bobby spat, throwing her words back. "Because you can't have any kind of normal relationship, any life on your own outside of the job."
Birds of a feather.
"Because you're still in love with your dead husband. You feel like you have to punish yourself for that."
Bobby paused. He could tell by the way Alex's jaw went tight that his remark landed with exactly the hurt intended.
"And I think that deep down—you like it," he snarled.
Goren leaned in close, twisting his body so that he was eye level with his partner. He dropped his voice low and soft, the same way he did after he'd broken through a suspect's defences.
"You are so afraid of being hurt again that you fell into bed with the one man, the one person you knew wouldn't say no! The one relationship that you knew could never go anywhere," Bobby continued.
They were partners.
And though the NYPD had no formal policy prohibiting fraternisation, it was heavily frowned upon and would likely result in one or both of them being reassigned to ensure there was no conflict of interest.
"I was a safe bet. And now that I'm not available at your beck and call, you're angry. You're grieving, Detective. But you can't take that out on Leslie while you process it," Bobby said.
Alex locked eyes with her partner. Her voice was cold.
"It's a good thing you're leaving. Because if you were planning to stay in Major Case—I would bench you. Your judgement is compromised."
"My judgement?!" Bobby roared in her face.
Eames flinched.
It was the first time in all their years together that she had actually flinched.
Goren liked to bang around the interrogation room. He rattled suspects. He threw his weight around to intimidate others. His temper was legendary, unpredictable, and explosive.
Through seven years and countless tossed paperwork, fists on tables, and blowups, Eames had never before shown visible fear.
But this was different. It was deeper.
Eames sank a torpedo right into the vulnerable hull of Bobby's biggest insecurity—his mental stability.
He turned and moved away, shaking his arms and rolling his shoulders to work off the sting. It took all of his practised self-composure not to pick up Jim Schorr's expensive deck furniture and chuck it over the balcony.
Goren wheeled. His arm shot out as he pointed at Eames.
"You don't know me," he barked.
Alex took a breath.
"No, Bobby. I don't. Because you don't talk to me," Eames said.
He'd shut her out of everything—his mother, Frank, his financial struggles, his fears about his own mental health.
Mark Ford Brady.
"You talk all the time. You never fucking shut up," Eames went on. "But you don't talk with me. You talk at me."
Bobby opened his mouth to contest that. Eames's hand shot up to stop him.
"I get it. I'm too 'pedestrian' to comprehend what's going on in that big brain. You're the genius. And I'm what? The plucky sidekick? The comic relief? I just exist to ask stupid questions so you can answer them with your superior intellect."
"We have different skill sets. That… that doesn't mean you're dumb," Bobby stammered. "I'm… well, I'm me. But you're a good cop. And you're… you're articulate—"
"Articulate."
Alex wasn't angry—she was hurt.
It wasn't the first time the term had caused Eames to bristle.
In fact, that exact phrase had been weaponised as a backhanded compliment by Nichole Wallace and Joe's mother.
Oh! I never would have guessed you grew up in such a 'charming' working class neighbourhood. You're so articulate.
Alex couldn't be certain if it was the tension or the fact that Leslie had used the same word (and the fear it had originated from her partner)—Eames had to go.
She needed to leave, to get clear while there was still something left to salvage in the wake of Goren's latest Category 5 hurricane.
"Goodnight, Detective."
Bobby watched as Eames slipped back into the crowd. He watched the tight smile on her face as she politely bid goodnight to the Captain and Rodgers and thanked Schorr for the invitation and truly wondered how Eames managed to keep a stiff upper lip.
Most people couldn't pick themselves up off the floor after a Goren lashing.
But there she was. His unflappable, unbreakable lightning rod, hiding the emotional wounds of her latest beating the same way his own mother had once hidden her bruises under long sleeves and dark sunglasses.
Bobby realised that he had treated Eames no different than the men he chastised her over.
Smash and dash.
Only in Bobby's case, Eames was his emotional punching bag.
Bobby couldn't tear his eyes away from the destruction he'd caused as he watched his partner retrieve her coat from one of the staff. Even as Leslie approached and buried her head against Bobby's chest, his attention remained fixated on Eames.
"I'm so sorry, Robert. I'm here. It will be alright," Leslie murmured as she reached for his hand.
He should have been happy.
Instead, Robert Goren felt a strange connection to the man he'd called 'father.'
He wondered if William Goren ever felt the same way whenever he disappeared for a week to blow his paycheck at the track. He wondered if William Goren felt even a flicker of the same deep sense of shame before returning to his wife and children, with alcohol on his breath and the smell of sex still clinging to his skin.
And Bobby wondered if on the day his father walked out for the final time, if William Goren had known he was leaving the one woman that loved him, the woman that brought out the best in him.
For good.
Bobby wondered if his father had felt the same way, like he was all alone in the ocean, glancing back over his shoulder only to realise he was paddling in the wrong direction.
Away from the only beacon of light amidst the dark, churning waters.
Robert Goren watched as she left alone—his beacon disappearing on the horizon, swallowed up by a storm of his own making.
He really wondered.