Author's Note: We're getting awful close to the conclusion of this arc. There are just two chapters left after this—one for the aria and one for the conclusion.
Brace yourself. Untethered is next.
There's a line in here from Ross about suspension. It's inspired by a scene in the episode Major Case where Ross jokes about his stint as Nichols's partner.
Tuesday
This is a good thing.
Bobby chanted that mantra over and over again in his mind—from the moment he swung by the FDA office to pick up Leslie after work, through their dinner at high-end Korean fusion bistro, and all the while they danced at the salsa club.
Bobby hoped that if he repeated the phrase enough that he might come to actually believe it.
His hand rested in the small of Leslie's back. He tightened his grip as the music slowed, pulling her close for a more intimate dance.
This is a good thing.
Wednesday
By Wednesday, things were looking up. Eames arrived early to work.
The DA's office had granted her request to subpoena the FDA employment records in Palin's office. She would deliver the request in person later that morning. Eames would personally supervise the search and transfer.
It was going to be a long day.
Eames came armed with extra coffee and a Danish to fuel the search. She was positive the answer to Leslie's sketchy past was somewhere in those files.
Alex had no sooner arrived at her desk when her mobile buzzed. It was her contact in Suffolk County.
Got an answer on that property search. Call me.
Alex slipped into one of the private conference rooms and hit the redial.
"Charlie? Yeah. It's me."
"There's no record of a Leslie Le Zard ever owning any property in Suffolk County. I can't find any record of a marriage or divorce either. But I ran a search on a hunch based on the criteria you sent over," Charlie explained. "I've got a few leads within those parameters."
Eames eyebrows shot up as she listened to an old contact spill the details on the property search in Suffolk County. There was
"I'm emailing you a list," Charlie advised.
"Okay. Thanks."
Eames ran into Ross on her way back to her desk. He recognised the twinkle in her eyes.
"A lead?" Ross prompted hopefully.
"Maybe. I need to pull some property records," Eames said.
"Let me know if you need an extra pair of hands," Ross offered.
Something in the Captain's voice led Eames to believe this offer was not merely a friendly gesture.
"Captain?"
"The Commissioner is getting a lot of pressure to close this case," Ross cautioned.
"Right," Eames nodded.
Good cops could lose their pension over a press case if it went sour—and Alex was in the midst of two high-profile cases.
"Just keep me posted," Ross said.
Alex slipped into the seat at her desk and booted up her laptop. Indeed, Charlie had compiled a comprehensive list.
Before Eames could dive in too far, ADA Ron Carver strolled into the squad room with his briefcase in hand.
"Good morning, Detective," Carver said as he handed Eames a folded document. "Your search warrant and subpoena."
"Thank you," Alex replied.
She closed her laptop and packed it away into her work bag. She could save the computer work for her lunch break.
Carver's brow furrowed when Eames threw on her coat.
"Shouldn't we wait for your partner?" Carver asked.
"He's working a different lead. Simmons and some of the folks from SID are going to meet us there," Eames explained.
She couldn't risk Bobby tipping off Miss Le Zard.
Carver put his hat back on his head and gestured to the lift.
"Lead the way, Detective."
FDA New York Office | Brooklyn
"Have Simmons start with the hard drives," Eames instructed as the team fanned out.
The FDA office was unusually quiet.
According to Stacey, the assistant, Mr Palin was playing golf that morning. Miss Le Zard had not yet shown up for work.
Alex was initially thrilled by Leslie's absence. She wasn't in the mood for Leslie's games that morning. Eames had no doubt Le Zard would pull out all the stops to try and block access to the employment files.
But as the minutes ticked on, Eames grew increasingly bothered by Leslie's tardiness.
It was nearly 10:00 and Le Zard still wasn't in the office.
"Sometimes she comes in late," Stacey offered. "You know, if she's been out the night before."
"The night before? You mean, like a date?" Eames inquired.
"She was done up all flash yesterday. Must have been some hot date because she wore her red dress—she wears it whenever she wants something," Stacey disclosed. "It's the same one she wore when she was trying it on with—"
Stacey stopped herself.
"Trying it on with who?" Eames pressed.
Stacey's face flushed with embarrassment. She dropped her voice to a low whisper.
"Well, you didn't hear it from me—but she went after Jim Schorr. Hard."
"Did that go anywhere?"
Stacey shook her head.
"Leslie certainly wanted it to. I don't think Mr Schorr was very interested. I overheard him tell Leslie that he wasn't interested in her advances. Said he loves his wife," Stacey answered.
"So, she knew Jim Schorr was married and that didn't stop her?"
Stacey snorted.
"It never has before," Stacey remarked.
Eames's eyes narrowed.
"You mean she's done this before. With someone here at the office?" Alex asked.
"Oh gosh, no one here," Stacey said quickly. "I mean… take a look around."
Stacey gestured to the sea of cubicles.
"Mid-level public servants? Leslie told me that she doesn't settle. I've worked with her for years. The guys she goes out with, well… let's just say that they aren't schlepping the morning commute in a used minivan."
Stacey glanced around to ensure there was no one in earshot. She was responsible for overseeing Leslie's calendar. She had insight into exactly the life Miss Le Zard was privileged to.
Stacey made reservations. She booked accommodations. She was tasked with sending gifts.
"Expensive dinners. Watches. Ties. Monogrammed shirts. I once had to track down a set of personalised poker chips," Stacey went on.
"How can she afford all that on her salary?" Eames asked.
Stacey shrugged.
"The same way she got everything. Somehow, she always manages to come out on top of any breakup. When things ended with John, she had a new diamond tennis bracelet. After Mark, it was new skis, and they negotiated an agreement for her to use his timeshare in Aspen," Stacey said.
Gee, I wish I had those terms. Alex mused.
"Last year she was seeing this investment banker. Then a week after they broke up, he lavished her with gifts. New luggage. A $2000.00 handbag. Jewellery. Tickets to Lincoln Centre. I thought he was trying to win her back but—"
Stacey sighed.
"I heard them on the phone. Leslie was negotiating," Stacey said. "She agreed to go away quietly, not make any trouble for him with his wife. In exchange, he made sure she was provided for."
"Provided for," Alex chuckled in disbelief. "You mean she's extorting these men for money."
"Leslie doesn't threaten anyone, she just… makes sure she gets what she's due," Stacey concluded. "How else do you think she got that penthouse?"
"She lives in a penthouse?" Eames asked.
"Yeah. In Soho. The address is in her personnel file," Stacey explained.
Eames made a mental note to cross reference that address with the results her contact in Suffolk County sent over.
As if on cue, Leslie Le Zard arrived at the office. She was flustered by the police presence. Eames could tell by her stiff posture and the way Leslie demanded answers.
She hovered as Simmons and his team collected the information specified in the search warrant.
"This is a waste of time," Leslie huffed as she slammed her bag down on her desk. "There are children dying. I hate to imagine what the public might think if they knew the NYPD was wasting its time combing through employment records."
"I imagine they'd be just as angry in knowing the head of the New York FDA was out playing golf and you were… what? Having a lie-in?" Eames shot back.
Leslie squared her shoulders and smirked.
"I had a late night, yes. He's an intriguing man. Makes you forget the time," Leslie said.
Eames wasn't rattled.
"I notice you don't display your diploma," Eames said as she surveyed Leslie's office. "What year did you graduate?"
"I keep it at home."
"That would be your penthouse in Soho?" Eames asked, undeterred.
The line of Leslie's mouth went thin.
"So, what year did you graduate from Yale?" Eames repeated.
"I really thought you of all people would see through men like Palin and Schorr. I thought you were smarter than that," Leslie shot back.
"You don't want to tell me, that's fine. I'm sure the information is in your employment file," Eames said.
Simmons poked his head in to let Eames know they were just packing up.
"Great. Thank you," Alex replied.
She turned back to Leslie and flashed her a broad smile.
"That was Detective Simmons. Forensic accountant. He has quite a knack for turning over rocks, finding things that slip through the cracks," Eames warned. "That's a Burberry handbag, isn't it? I would love to know how you swing it on an FDA salary."
Leslie clutched her handbag protectively.
"It was a gift from an ex," Leslie said.
"Must be some generous boyfriend," Eames remarked knowingly. "Why would you ever let a guy like that get away?"
Leslie's face soured.
"Children are dying, Detective."
Eames nodded slowly as she stuffed her hands in the pocket of her coat.
"Mmm hmm. They are. And it would go a long way in clearing you as a suspect if you weren't so cagey about your past," Eames said.
Leslie grumbled and crossed her arms.
"I don't talk about my past. I… I didn't grow up in the same world as guys like Schorr and Palin. I've had to work very hard. And I learned early on to cover my small-town roots," Leslie snapped.
"You mean at Yale?" Eames asked. "Or with your boyfriends? They're usually married, right?"
Eames had gotten under Leslie's skin. She could see the cracks in her façade.
"Like you'd be fine with someone digging around in your past?" Leslie hissed.
"You were one of the only people to know about the tainted product. We have to clear everyone, Miss Le Zard. It's routine procedure," Eames explained.
"You mean that the NYPD is doing everything it can to dance around the fact guys like Palin and Schorr—"
"Are you fixated on Schorr because he rejected you?" Eames interjected.
Leslie was scandalised.
"Is that what he told you?" Leslie demanded. "As if I would ever… I… is this all because of your partner? Because you're… you're jealous?"
Eames chuckled.
"Don't expect a designer handbag when it goes south," Eames quipped.
Leslie fumbled with the papers on her desk.
"I have a crisis team meeting to prepare for. I have to make sure no more children die," Leslie said. "Someone has to do something for those children."
"Well then, I'll let you get to work."
Eames got what she'd come for—and she was certain the answers to Leslie's past were in those files.
Leslie watched as the NYPD filed out of the FDA offices. She stood at the office window and waited while they loaded up the SUV.
As soon as they drove off, Leslie reached for her phone.
"Yes. Please get me Jack Riley at The Ledger. Extension 422. Tell him it's Leslie Le Zard."
Bearson, Burke, Boschwitz, and Rolph | Financial District | Manhattan
It was easy to track down the owner of Leslie's penthouse. Eames got the address from the employment file. It matched to a partner at a brokerage firm.
A married partner.
One with a house in Suffolk County.
"We met at a benefit. She mentioned she was looking for a discreet sublet," Burke said.
He handed the photo of Leslie back to Eames.
"You had an affair," Eames said.
"I didn't—"
"I checked the property records. You're still paying the property taxes on that penthouse. You're not subletting it. Was that in exchange for her silence? You give her the cushy penthouse and she goes away quietly?" Eames pressed.
Mr Burke was flustered. He tugged at his collar. His reaction sparked a theory. Eames was reminded of Stacey's warning that Leslie liked to sneak into Marty Palin's office, eavesdrop on conversations, and use that information to secure power in the office.
"That's an awfully big payout for an affair. It was something else, wasn't it? Did she find out your firm was doing something under the table? Did she threaten to go public?" Eames asked.
"Do I need a lawyer?" Burke asked.
"You're not under investigation, Mr Burke. But I need to know what you know about Miss Le Zard. What did she have on you?" Eames said.
Burke broke. He leaned back in his chair and sighed.
"We met at a benefit. She… it was like magic. We had the same hobbies, the same interests. In hindsight, it should have been obvious that she'd made me as a mark," Burke explained.
But by that point it was too late.
"One of the partners was embezzling from the firm to cover gambling debts. We found out. Put a plan in place to have him repay the money. And we used our own personal funds to keep the firm afloat. We couldn't risk the public finding out," Burke disclosed.
"It would have destroyed the firm's reputation," Eames said.
"Leslie knew. She'd been reading my emails, combing through our financials. I had no idea. My wife and I reconciled. I told Leslie we were breaking it off. She laid out her terms," Burke said.
Burke paused. He folded his hands atop his desk and leaned forward.
"That was two years ago. Three months back, I told Leslie that I wanted to renegotiate. Create an 'off-ramp' to transition the penthouse to her name," Burke shared.
"And how did she take it?"
Burke scoffed.
"She was furious. Claims she can't afford that place. But you've seen the way she lives. She's not hurting for funds," Burke said.
"What do you know about Leslie's life? Her circle? Her family? Did you ever meet anyone from her world?" Eames inquired.
"No. Nothing like that. But when we first met, she was living over in Tribeca. The mail was addressed to a Jennifer Hanson. I asked her about it once. Leslie said she was subletting from a cousin."
"Okay. Thanks, Mr Burke."
On her way out of the building, Eames placed a call to Simmons.
"Yeah. I need you to run a search on someone. Jennifer Hanson. She had an address in Tribeca. I'm texting it to you now."
"Jennifer Hanson," Simmons said.
Eames stared at the photograph on the board. The woman bore a striking resemblance to Leslie Le Zard.
"Her family filed a missing persons report three years ago. It was investigated and closed. The local precinct said they interviewed her. She claimed she was fine and had simply cut off contact with her family," Simmons said.
Then he wiggled his eyebrows.
"But that's where things get weird," Simmons teased.
Eames gestured to Simmons to get on with it.
"Six weeks after that interview, Jennifer Hanson maxed out her credit cards. Online spending. Bought a new car. Paid her utilities in advance. Then she dropped off the face of the Earth," Simmons said.
He couldn't find a single financial trail for Ms Hanson since then.
"She hasn't filed income tax. There's no work history. No purchases. Nada."
"She was working at a restaurant in Midtown," Eames read aloud.
"I called. The manager remembered her. Said she called up one day and quit. No notice," Simmons said.
He snapped his fingers and then jumped on his laptop.
"I ran a search and found that Hanson took out an advert online for a roommate one month before she disappeared."
Simmons flipped the laptop around to show Eames the listing.
"It was taken down a few days later. She might have found a flatmate," Simmons said.
"One with an agenda," Eames agreed.
"One with skills—impressive skills," Simmons added. "They knew how to pick a mark and cover their tracks well. They cleaned out Hanson's savings, converted everything to cash. It's untraceable."
Simmons knew from experience that most identity thieves weren't that savvy.
"They dumped everything traceable and moved on before anyone got wise," Simmons said.
"Did Hanson go to Yale?" Eames asked.
"No. No record of that," Simmons said.
Eames's brow furrowed as she studied the photograph of Jennifer Hanson. There were striking similarities to Miss Le Zard.
"Is it possible Leslie Le Zard is Jennifer Hanson?" Eames pondered aloud.
Simmons perked up. He leaned over his laptop and began to type furiously.
"I had a hunch you might ask. They are, well—"
Eames rolled her hand, urging Simmons to get on with it before he blurted out his opinion of Miss Le Zard. Alex had already experienced her fill of Goren fawning over the grifter—she didn't need it spreading through 1PP.
"Hanson was a regular blood donor. O positive," Simmons said.
"High demand," Eames remarked, reading the file over Simmons's shoulder.
"We don't have access to Le Zard's medical records—but I found an old office newsletter where Le Zard was interviewed for an upcoming blood drive," Simmons shared.
He clicked through to the next screen and pulled up a digital file of the report.
"Here. She's quoted about her 'Type A positive' being a positive influence on the office," Simmons said.
It was no medical record—but it might be enough for Carver to get probable cause for a blood test. Jennifer Hanson's family had filed a missing persons. It was Eames's job to track down any lead in relation to that.
"Good work, Simmons," Eames said.
Simmons caught Eames on her way out the door.
"Did you want me to assign someone to go through the files on Le Zard? We could start there," Simmons offered.
"No, I'll take care of it," Eames replied.
Goren spent the morning combing through the financials from Schorr Labs. He'd set up a space for himself in one of the private rooms. It was his haven, the one space where he could work without Eames's scrutiny.
Bobby's phone buzzed with an incoming call from Leslie.
She was distraught.
"Whoa, whoa. Slow down," Bobby said.
"I need to see you," Leslie pleaded.
It took Bobby an hour to get back to Brooklyn. He met Leslie at a diner. She was already there, huddled in the corner and sipping on coffee.
She looked tense. But Leslie visibly relaxed when she caught sight of Bobby.
"It's so good to see you," she said, flashing him a warm smile.
Leslie was rattled about the search.
"They were everywhere. Digging through everything. Marty was golfing this morning. Like he even cares. I just… I have never felt so… so violated," Leslie said.
"I'm sorry. A search can feel… personal," Goren agreed.
"Why didn't you tip me off? I could have been there. I could have—"
Leslie gasped. Her eyes went wide.
"You didn't know, did you? They kept it from you. Your partner. She didn't tell you about the search, did she?" Leslie realised.
Goren's nonanswer was confirmation.
It stung to know that Eames had cut him out of the chain of communication. What hurt the most was in knowing that Eames couldn't trust him.
"I just hate that Palin and Schorr are walking free. They're responsible for this," Leslie pressed.
Bobby sighed and scratched his chin.
"We don't have evidence linking them to the murder. We can't arrest them on a hunch," Goren said.
"That's why I needed to see you. I can't trust your partner with this. She wouldn't even listen to me this morning. She seems to think I'm a suspect," Leslie scoffed.
Leslie reached into her beg and produced a manilla folder. She passed it across the table to Goren.
Bobby flipped open the file and skimmed the contents. His greying brow furrowed.
"And… and how did you find this?"
"Marty's out today. Golfing with his buddies. I had to check on some reports. I found these on his computer," Leslie said.
"How did you get these?" Bobby asked, concerned.
Leslie opened her mouth to speak, Bobby's hand shot up to stop her.
"Actually, maybe it's better I don't know," Bobby said.
Leslie's previous admission indicated that she had taken them from Palin's computer without authorisation. Bobby didn't want confirmation of that—he needed plausible deniability if he was going to present it to ADA Carver.
"This is what you need right? To take down Palin? And Schorr?" Leslie asked.
Bobby was at a loss for words. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged.
"It's… erm… well, it's damning," he agreed.
He couldn't guarantee a conviction. There remained a lot of unanswered questions.
"This should be sufficient as probable cause for a search warrant," Goren said.
Leslie made a face. Her jaw clenched.
"You have to do something, Robert," she urged. "Stand up and stop them."
Under the table, Leslie rested her hand atop his thigh. She squeezed his knee.
"I know how much this case weighs you," she murmured.
Assistant District Attorney's Office | 1 Hogan's Place | Manhattan
ADA Ron Carver studied the document over the rim of his reading glasses. He leaned forward in his chair and eyed Goren carefully.
"Detective, I assume there's a good reason you brought this straight to me," Carver began.
While not entirely outside of standard procedure, it was unusual. Most evidence brought to the DA's office came through the proper chain of possession.
Usually, that came through the Captain.
Carver was also curious why Goren had come alone. Eames & Goren always worked together. Now, for the second time in one day, they were at opposite ends.
Eames was the senior partner.
If there was evidence that couldn't wait or was too pressing, she was the one to make the call.
"And how did you come to be in possession of these emails?" Carver queried.
"Mr Carver, the person that provided this information is at risk for professional and personal consequences if Jim Schorr were to ever find out they had revealed this information," Goren prefaced.
He reminded Carver that Palin and Schorr were responsible for killing Jim Kettle over the same conspiracy.
"So, you obtained these from a federal employee," Carver said knowingly.
He folded his hands atop his desk. The line of his jaw tensed in the way it did whenever Goren tried his patience. Carver recognised that Detective Goren had the best of intentions.
It didn't make his methods any less aggravating.
"We have to act before Palin and Schorr can dispose of the evidence," Goren urged.
He started to pace in front of Carver's desk. He ran a shaking hand back through his hair. There was perspiration on his brow.
"The… the minute they get wind that we're on to them—they're gone," Goren fumed, pointing dramatically to drive home his point.
"Detective, please."
Carver's smooth baritone had a way of bringing down the temperature in the room.
"We executed a search warrant this morning at the FDA offices. That included Palin's hard drive. His emails. We've got all of it," Carver said.
He held up the paperwork Goren had brought it.
"This will be in there. Your whistleblower doesn't need to worry about being exposed," Carver assured him.
Goren stopped pacing.
"And Palin? Schorr?"
He had to know.
"I'll phone over to 1PP and ask that they start with Palin's emails," Carver advised.
Major Case | One Police Plaza | Manhattan
Eames's expression hardened as she skimmed through the file in hand.
"Captain, I've never seen these," Eames said.
Danny Ross shifted in his chair. He looked Eames over, watching for any tell that might provide a foot in the door for a conversation he did not want to broach.
"The DA's office got this from a source. How did they find it before we did?" Ross asked.
Eames bristled. She dropped her gaze to the corner of Ross's desk and replayed the steps of their investigation.
Eames, Simmons, and the team from SID had combed through every inch of Jim Kettle's files.
Alex was tech savvy herself. She'd personally taken on the task of reviewing every email and file Palin and Le Zard had touched in the last two weeks.
"Captain, this wasn't in there," Eames said.
Simmons and the team from SID were looking into older emails and files. Eames knew they wouldn't find anything. The email was fresh—dated from last weekend.
"Maybe Palin is more adept than we've given him credit for?" Ross suggested. "Maybe he found a way to hide this? Or used a different device?"
Eames shook her head.
Sometimes the lack of technical know-how in Major Case really got under her skin. She grew frustrated trying to explain things to the likes of Goren, Ross, and Logan.
"That's not how it works. Besides, Palin never deleted anything," Eames pressed.
She could assign someone from SID to recover any potentially deleted emails—but Alex doubted they would find much.
"He still had junk mail in his inbox from years ago," Eames continued.
"So, maybe he really is a good actor?" Ross shot back.
"I just don't see it," Eames said in earnest.
"Yeah… you're probably right," Ross acknowledged.
He'd spoken to Palin at the benefit event and gleaned the same impression during their short interaction.
"Then tell me, Detective, how does this email wind up on Palin's computer?" Ross asked.
He wasn't angry—he genuinely wanted a theory.
"Erm…"
Eames trailed off. She glanced over at the window, chewing on the inside of her lip as she tried to formulate a response.
"I'll track down the IP address that sent that email. And I'll go through everything again to be sure I didn't miss it," Eames said.
"Assign someone from SID. There's another borough announcement going out tonight in Harlem. A community meeting. You should be there," Ross said.
Eames shrugged innocently.
"It's no problem, Captain. I don't want to be on camera, and I'd really rather do this myself," Eames said.
"I wasn't asking," Ross replied.
Ross's expression softened.
"You don't need to go on camera, Detective. But you should be at that meeting," Ross clarified.
Alex scratched the side of her face.
"Erm… okay. And when I get back, I'll dig into the email," she said matter-of-factly.
It was something Eames did whenever she wanted to close the door on discussion, whenever she needed to assert that a plan was going to go in the direction she envisioned—without debate.
"Detective," Ross said knowingly.
Eames fell silent.
"You're doing an admirable job to sell it, but I know you're upset. You're bothered at the idea of SID combing through those emails. Does it have anything to do with the reason your partner was at that benefit the other night?" Ross asked.
Eames stiffened in her chair.
"You're protecting your partner. I get it," Ross said.
He was no stranger to that loyalty. Ross respected it. He knew it didn't come easy—or go quickly.
"My old partner, he was a lot like Detective Goren. I was threatened with suspension every other month. I spent more time keeping him in line than… let's just say I went into the job with a great partner and a good marriage—you can guess which one survived."
Ross paused. A tight, sad smile crossed his face, the same one that appeared whenever the subject of his divorce came up.
"If my partner called today, I would drop everything for him. But there's a reason we don't work together anymore. Ever heard 'secure your own oxygen mask first?'" Ross asked softly.
Eames wasn't convinced.
"Eames, I saw the way Detective Goren was at that party. He's fraternising with our whistleblower. If that were to get out, it would compromise the entire investigation."
"I have never known Detective Goren to do anything inappropriate while off duty," Eames said.
It was a weak statement of support.
Ross recognised Eames was in a tight spot. Silence would only serve to confirm what Ross already knew. Nor could Eames bring herself to out her partner's indiscretion—even in spite of what had transpired.
"You wanted to review the files from Palin and Le Zard yourself to protect your partner. It's admirable. But foolish," Ross cautioned.
Alexandra, Defender of Mankind.
She was obligated to protect Bobby—especially given the way things had ended between them.
She couldn't bear the thought of betraying him. Eames knew that would be the final straw that would break Robert Goren for good.
Ross could tell he'd put Eames on edge. He needed to walk things back or he could risk losing her too. He put up his hand to indicate he wasn't finished.
"I'm not going to bring the hammer down on him. I want to see these bastards held accountable for what they've done to those children. And I do not want to risk this investigation blowing up over a little bit of—"
Ross trailed off.
Hanky panky? Flirtation?
Each word that popped to mind was more unsavoury than the last. And Ross was pretty sure things had gone further than a bit of flirtation.
"I'm sure Detective Goren knows where to draw the line," Ross settled on.
Yeah. Right up Miss Le Zard's skirt. Eames fumed.
Ross stuffed his hands in his pockets and sighed.
"I know he's leaving, Detective. I'm not going to haul him in here or write him up on his way out the door," Ross said, resigned.
"Then you know. He told you," Eames said in a faraway voice.
"I got a call from a head-hunter. Security firm. And… I could piece things together. All the tension the last few weeks. I figured it was only a matter of time after his mother," Ross surmised.
"Hmm." Eames nodded.
Thank goodness Ross thought that was the source of the sour milk between them.
"Pass it off to SID and get up to Harlem for the briefing," Ross ordered.
"Right," Eames said.
She took a breath to compose herself and then rose from her chair. Ross stopped her just before she reached the door.
"Eames, things with the investigation? Otherwise?" he prompted.
"Things are going well, sir," she answered.
By Wednesday afternoon, things were not going well.
And by Wednesday night, they had taken a turn for the worse.
"You could bunk in the barracks," Logan suggested.
He was over by the window with a mug of coffee in hand, peering down through the blinds at the media frenzy below.
"I have a guest room. My building has security. There's no way they could follow. It would be private," Wheeler offered.
"I—"
Eames was at a loss for words.
She was a private person. It was horrifying to find her personal life suddenly under the focused lens of the New York City media.
Alex Eames had always maintained a low profile. She didn't tell people she was a cop. As a Detective in Major Case, it was a matter of safety. And as a technically shrewd individual, Eames was cautious about leaving a digital trail for anyone to follow.
Her phone number was unlisted.
She placed all outgoing calls to witnesses or public agencies through a phone issued by the department. Her personal number was private. Only family, close friends, and few other NYPD staff had her personal number.
Her address was excluded from publicly searchable databases. Eames kept a box at a messenger service for packages.
She maintained no social media profile, avoided dating sites and forums. She didn't even register for commercial loyalty programmes.
The routine necessitated from her time undercover in Vice had become a way of life.
So, it was both confusing and alarming to find herself the subject of intense media scrutiny.
Eames had been taken off-guard by a surprise question about Manny Beltran's case during the briefing in Harlem.
She gave no comment.
That had been one lone reporter at a routine briefing. Eames didn't even think the local media in Harlem would give the update a minute on the news. The reporter didn't even have a cameraperson with them.
After the briefing, the reality of it began to set in. Eames checked her phone for updates to find the voicemail was full. Someone had leaked her phone number to the press.
It was downright suffocating when the media descended on the public space outside of One Police Plaza.
Alex had pushed her way through plenty of arrests, interviews, and perp walks where the press crowded them, demanding answers, cameras flashing her face—but never as the object of their attention.
Is it true you failed to mirandize Manny Beltran?
Why did you ambush Mr Beltran at work?
Why did the NYPD allow you to investigate the Quinn shooting with such an obvious conflict of interest?
Eames had been looking forward to a quiet evening at home. Now, she'd spent the better part of it holed up in 1PP like some kind of fugitive.
"Oooo, Faith Yancy's van just rolled up," Logan said with sarcastic enthusiasm.
Eames glanced at the clock. It was after 7:00.
"I just should go home. They'll get the hint," Eames said.
Logan wasn't as optimistic.
"The vultures? No. They'll wait as long as it takes—believe me," he remarked before taking a sip of his coffee.
He'd been through his own experience as a public spectacle.
"Whatever you decide, I want a uniform to escort you. And I'll assign a patrol car to sit outside," Ross said.
"Is that an order?" Eames asked, incredulous.
"No," Ross replied slowly.
"Good."
Eames's tone was short. She already felt awful for causing a disruption. She didn't like everyone making a fuss over her or the fact her very private life was now on full public display.
"Hey, this wasn't your fault," Wheeler reminded her.
Only Eames had an icky feeling that it was—and she didn't just mean the error in judgement surrounding Beltran's arrest.
Alex was positive that Leslie Le Zard was behind this, that she had come too close to catching her out and had forced Le Zard to take action.
Manipulators were like that.
"How about I drive?" Ross suggested as a compromise.
Eames folded her arms across her chest and frowned, wordlessly communicating that while she appreciated the gesture, Ross lived in Brooklyn. She didn't want him driving all the way out to Rockaway Beach just to have to double back.
"Look, I'm gonna just hang out here for a while and go through the case files. If things don't ease up, I'll sleep in the barracks," Eames said.
Ross looked from Logan to Wheeler, the three of them in silent agreement.
"You want company? I know a great Cantonese place that delivers," Ross offered.
Eames chuckled.
"No. Thank you. But I think I'd rather be alone."
9:14 p.m. | Major Case | One Police Plaza
The team from SID were still waiting to hear back from folks that handled the email server on Palin's account.
Thus far, they had not managed to recover the whistleblower email that had mysteriously dropped in the DA's lap.
It was a shame too.
Because according to the email, Palin and Schorr weren't just aware of the counterfeit mouthwash—they were the source of it.
In the emails, Schorr confessed to a scheme to dump faulty product in Harlem. The counterfeit SnoMint labels were a forensic countermeasure to throw suspicion off Schorr Labs.
That's where Palin and the FDA came in. Schorr needed Palin to ensure any reports about the product were swept under the rug before the public got wind.
But something about all of that stuck in Robert Goren's craw.
He'd spent the evening with Leslie. They enjoyed dinner at her penthouse, ordering in from a nearby favourite. She was concerned about her safety and worried what might happen if she were to leave the sanctuary of the penthouse.
She advised Bobby that she had already made arrangements to work from home the following day.
Leslie's penthouse was only twenty minutes from 1PP.
Unable to shake the feeling that something was off, Bobby swung by on his way home to give things another look.
The late-night trip had a second advantage. Major Case would be quiet. There was no risk of running into his partner or Captain Ross.
Bobby stepped off the lift and strolled into the squad room.
He stopped dead in his tracks when he reached the edge of the room.
Eames was at her desk, hunched over her computer in deep thought.
Out of the corner of her eye, Eames spied someone standing in the corridor. Their desks sat at the far edge closest to the lift, perpendicular to the corridor and at the right angle to see anyone coming and going.
Eames glanced over at her partner.
He looked well-rested. Bobby was wearing a black suit with a crisp white button-up. He had on a sharp, dark tie. His coat was slung over his arm.
Eames was struck by how closely he resembled the Robert Goren of old, the man he had been in the early years of their partnership before all the trauma of Nichole Wallace and Jo Gage and his mother.
For a moment, Eames considered that he had seen the news reports and rushed down to 1PP—not because she needed a white knight, but because he would never let his partner walk through fire alone.
If she had to spend the night holed up in the office, then Bobby was going to be there with her.
"I just came to grab a file," Bobby announced.
Just like that, Eames's fleeting glimmer of faith that some threads simply couldn't be broken went up in smoke.
Goren stepped over to his desk and began to rummage around—pulling drawers harder than intended and moving his binder back and forth.
Eames could just sense Goren was put off by her presence. He had come hoping to be alone. She was the last person Goren wanted to see.
"You're working late," Goren remarked.
He kept his eyes trained on his desk.
"Well, you know," Eames replied.
Only Bobby didn't know.
He was blissfully unaware of the events from earlier. He hadn't caught a single news report while at the penthouse. Though he had crossed the line of news crews, that in and of itself wasn't unheard of for One Police Plaza.
Bobby heard the intake of breath that preceded Eames's statement.
"So… you've erm… you've told the Captain."
"Told the Captain?" Bobby asked.
He didn't follow. Eames fiddled her tape dispenser as she tried to keep her voice steady. She didn't want Bobby to think she was angry—or worse, that it was some pathetic attempt to convince him to stay.
"You turned in your notice. Private security. Will you be consulting?" Eames inquired politely.
Bobby glanced up and frowned.
"What are you talking about?"
Eames blinked.
"Your plan," she said. "Leaving Major Case. Ross said he got a call from a head-hunter. That's a cushy gig. My old partner, he's in the private sector now. Better hours."
Eames was trying to be cordial.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Bobby replied in earnest.
Eames looked as if she'd been slapped.
"Sorry, I must have misheard," Eames said.
A horrible thought settled in the back of her mind, one that screamed that Robert Goren was so disgusted by Eames that he felt it necessary to hide his retirement plans from her.
Eames didn't press the issue.
"What's with all the news vans?" Goren asked.
Alex stopped and looked up. She took a moment before responding. She wanted to snap, to lash out at him for abandoning her during her time of need.
But she was too tired to put up a fight.
"You erm… you haven't caught the news tonight," Eames said as she tucked her hair back behind her ear.
Goren looked up from his binder, concerned.
"No," he replied slowly.
Something in the tenor of her voice gave him pause.
"Is there something I should be aware of?" Bobby inquired.
Eames shut her computer off and reached for the coat slung over the back of her chair.
"No," she replied. "It doesn't concern you."
Eames's voice was easy, nonchalant. It carried no malice. The way she responded led Goren to believe the news cameras had nothing to do with Major Case. There were plenty of other busy NYPD offices located in the building.
"Night," Eames said on her way out.
Bobby didn't think any more about it.
By the time he left 1PP an hour later, the news crews were gone.
Goren didn't listen to the radio on his drive home, opting instead to simply enjoy the ride in silence. He did not own a television. Frank was already fast asleep.
The only thing that bothered Bobby that night when he slipped into bed was the fact that Jim Schorr would commit such a horrible crime over faulty product.
Goren had gone to review his notes at 1PP. They confirmed his earlier understanding of the financials.
SnoMint was relatively cheap to produce. Sure, the emails detailed 1.8 million dollars in product that was tainted with D.E.G.
It was a paltry sum compared to what Schorr Labs made in profit—even smaller when the possibility of fines and lawsuits came into play.
Schorr was a businessman.
Bobby didn't trust them by nature. Schorr was ruthless. He was also savvy.
Schorr Labs made billions of dollars in profit annually.
Goren just couldn't Schorr eating the time, cost, and risk involved to cover up a conspiracy over 1.8 million dollars.
Now they were facing multiple murder charges, fines, and costly legal fees.
It didn't add up.
Bobby massaged his temples as he struggled to piece together a plausible motive for the vast conspiracy.
Schorr was concerned about his reputation.
But enough to kill?
Goren didn't think so. Rather, he thought it less likely that Schorr would risk destroying that reputation over a small sum of money.
Bobby rolled over onto his side. He clutched his pillow and grumbled in frustration.
Thursday
"Channel 6 news has learned that Detective Alexandra Eames is the same NYPD officer that shot and killed Chance Slaughter, the son of billionaire media mogul, Jonas Slaughter. Viewers will remember the shocking scene that played out two years ago right in front of Manhattan District Court."
Alex Eames had certainly never forgotten that day.
"No charges were filed, and Detective Eames was cleared in that shooting. But Channel 6 has learned she was involved in a second shooting. Mr Filip Brankovich of Staten Island during the course of an attempted arrest," the reporter shared. "At the time of the shooting, Mr Brankovich was a suspect in a kidnapping."
And he sat by and let a rapist terrorise a child. Eames thought bitterly.
"According to the Pew Research Centre, only twenty-seven percent of law enforcement officers surveyed in the United States have ever fired their service weapon in the line of duty," the reporter went on.
Eames had a disconcerting feeling that she knew exactly where Channel 6 was headed—and that the likes of Faith Yancy, Crime Beat, and the evening news wouldn't be far behind.
"With the NYPD's failure in the jarring arrest of Manny Beltran and, as some are saying, blatant violation of his civil liberties, some New Yorkers are left asking why officers like Detective Eames have been allowed to continue for so long with such troubling records."
Oh, the sweet irony that Alex Eames would be the one hauled to the carpet.
"We spoke to Detective Eames to ask about her side of the story—"
Eames buried her face in her hand.
She didn't need to watch the television screen to know what was coming. She'd been replaying the damn event in her mind all morning.
"Get off my property," Eames snapped.
On screen, New York viewers were treated to the image of Eames with her hand up as she pushed her way to her car.
Of course, Channel 6 didn't show the previous nine hours of footage that led up to that moment. They had followed Eames home and sat camped out on her doorstep all night.
Alex had come downstairs to find a television camera watching the front of her house—aimed right in her windows.
Before snapping at the crew to clear out, she had politely (but firmly) made clear she had no comment and asked them to leave.
Captain Ross switched off the television.
"You look good on camera," Logan teased, hoping to lighten the mood.
He was sitting on the table along the wall, munching on a box of pastry. Wheeler was in the corner looking sullen.
Goren hadn't arrived yet.
"I asked Logan to drop in for moral support seeing as how he's spent his own tour as the departmental pariah," Ross said.
He'd been hoping Logan would give more of a supportive shoulder rather than comic relief.
"Staten Island's not all bad," Logan said.
Ross frowned.
"I'm assigning a liaison from the press office. Eames, you and I will head up there to speak with the media coordinator in an hour," Ross said.
Eames baulked.
"Captain, don't. Please."
Eames just wanted to return to work. She needed to occupy her mind with something other than the disaster before her.
"I'm sorry, Detective. This story has ballooned beyond a press case. It's out of my hands. The Chief of D's is already getting bombarded with inquiries and complaints from the public," Ross said.
Eames's anger faltered.
"About… me?"
Ross could tell she was distressed. The notion of having her integrity questioned so publicly hurt worse than the media pressure.
"Tensions are high right now," Ross said, hoping to make it seem less personal.
He had no intention of informing Eames of the complaints that had poured in that were personal.
In particular, Jonas Slaughter (the jury had deadlocked) had seized the opportunity to renew his calls to have Eames sacked.
He'd already lost a civil case and worked through his rolodex of contacts of the matter.
A dozen fresh complaints had come in overnight from perps, one-time suspects, witnesses, or their families that had been dissatisfied by their interactions with the no-nonsense Detective Eames.
The one that was most troubling of all had come from Mr and Mrs Dutton of Sands Point.
"Am I off the case?" Eames asked.
Ross hesitated.
"SID is still working on that email. It's going to be slow going until we get that back. You're not off the case, but let's keep it a slow day here, okay?"
Ross hadn't taken her off the task force—Eames was just grounded to the squad room until further notice.
"And Detective? I put in a call to a friend. He's a lawyer with the union. I think you should meet with him. Today," Ross said.
Eames kept her hands on her lap. She didn't want Ross to see how they shook.
"Am I being fired?" she asked point blank.
"Not if I can help it," Ross replied.
Goren arrived shortly after 10:00.
Eames was at her desk. She was in deep concentration, staring at her computer. An open package of skittles sat untouched.
"Morning."
That was all Goren said as he sat down at his desk.
Eames looked up from her computer and waited, giving him space to say something, anything.
She knew that Bobby had a tendency to get lost in his own world. There were days she wondered if he knew what year it was.
But he didn't offer a word of support or even acknowledgement of the situation.
Eames tried not to take it personally and turned back to her own work. She was still waiting for SID to trace the IP address that sent the smoking gun email.
Ross appeared at their desks. He greeted Goren and then glanced over at Eames.
"Ready?" he asked.
"As I'll ever be," Eames replied without gusto.
That caught Bobby's attention.
He glanced up from his notes and looked back and forth between the two.
Ross looked as if he'd swallowed a lemon whole. Bobby could tell from Eames's body language that she dreaded whatever they were off to.
She threw on her suit jacket but did not take the keys to the SUV.
"Is there something happening upstairs?" Goren asked.
Eames scrunched up her nose like Bobby had just shoved a sweat sock in her face.
"Come on," Ross said gently, shuffling Eames along to the lift.
He shot Goren a stern, chastising look on his way out.
Bobby sat back at his desk and frowned. He glanced over at Logan at the desk across the way.
"Have I missed something?"
"You really have no idea what that's about?" Logan asked.
Bobby gestured, indicating he was at a loss.
Logan chuckled and then took a slow sip of coffee.
"Ohhhhhhh, Goren," Mike groaned. "You are unbelievable."
Alex barely paid attention as the media advisor walked her through their plan to handle the latest crisis.
She had expected the brass at NYPD to place her on administrative leave or suggest she take personal time off.
To her relief, they wanted to keep Eames on the task force—for now.
They thought that having Eames as the face behind solving the SnoMint scare would go a long way in building public goodwill.
"I was also thinking it would be good for you to tell your story now that you're out there," the advisor said.
Eames remained silent.
"There's hundreds of requests. I would advise Channel 7. The Sunday show. It would air as a feature."
Alex frowned.
"Detective, you're already out there whether you like it or not," the advisor pointed out.
She urged Alex to take the opportunity to reclaim her own story about the Beltran arrest.
"I've read your husband's file. I've read your file. I think if the public knew, if they saw that your husband was a great officer. You were such a young couple. We need to humanise you. Some photos."
The advisor had already pulled the news clips from Joe's murder.
Eames stared down at his face on the front page of the paper. Joe's service photograph smiled back.
"These are great. And he's so handsome. If we could—"
"No," Eames said suddenly.
She gently pushed away the pictures.
"No," she repeated.
Ross had warned the media advisor that Eames would want to preserve her privacy. He'd tried to spare her this PR push.
"There are a lot of people, groups that support police and first responders, family organisations and the like that would be keen to throw their weight behind—"
"My husband isn't a prop," Eames declared.
Goren stared at the computer screen in disbelief.
"You really had no idea," Logan realised.
He'd sat at the edge of the desk, watching as Goren ran through each and every shade of shock, anger, and grief in his emotional rolodex.
By the time Eames and Ross returned from the meeting upstairs, Bobby was still too stunned to speak.
He caught her eye as she passed.
He knew that there were no words that could begin to properly apologise—both for his lack of concern and his absence.
Bobby had missed it. He'd missed all of it.
He was left shaken.
It was confirmation that Goren had lost his edge, that he had no business staying in Major Case. That he wasn't (and never would be) good enough for Alex Eames.
The old Goren would have pieced it together from her body language alone. The news crews outside the night before were like a giant flaming clue.
Bobby had been too distracted by the case at hand to even pay attention to what was happening in plain view.
Eames deserved better.
Suddenly, Logan's phone rang.
"I gotta take this," Mike said.
Bobby got up from Logan's chair. He glanced back over his shoulder. Eames was in the Captain's office.
Goren didn't stop to sit at his own desk. He snagged his coat off the back of his chair and made a beeline for the lift.