Author's Note: Thank you for your support of this story.
A few things to keep in mind for the next few chapters:
I've taken some creative liberties with Frank Goren's timeline in this chapter. I really liked the idea of the scenes between Frank & Eames and Frank & Bobby.
While not exactly true to canon, I've tried to weave them into the story in a way that's plausible.
LO:CI has a conflicting timeline (in many instances). One of those discrepancies is whether Joe Dutton's death occurred in 1997 or 1998.
For the purpose of this story, it happened in 1997.
Also, we learn in Amends that Eames and Dutton were wed shortly before Saint Patrick's Day 1995. No exact date is given so I have expanded based on that to place their anniversary in late February.
Content Warnings
Discussion of: Sexual assault, trauma, and violence
Scenes containing: Substance use, grief/loss, sex
Eames locked her computer. She rose from her desk, stuffed her mobile into her jean pocket, and then threw on her coat.
She was preparing to head out of 1PP in order to follow up with a witness.
She had three new cases sitting on her desk and another eight pending—assuming the approval to transfer them to Major Case went through.
It was a helluva a workload and Eames was facing the prospect of doing it alone. There was no word yet on how long Goren would be out on bereavement leave.
Eames was just about to the door when she caught sight of Goren in the corridor.
"Bobby?"
He played it casual—too casual.
Eames's eyes narrowed as she spied the folder in his hand.
"I thought you were on leave?"
"Yeah. I am. I just… uh, had some business."
Eames quirked one eyebrow.
"In the Medical Examiner's office?"
Damn.
She caught sight of the direction he'd come from and the ME's stamp on the file before he obscured it with his thumb.
"I just had to come in to sort some things out with my leave," he said.
It wasn't exactly a lie.
"I wanted to thank Rodgers for coming to my mother's service," Goren added for good measure.
"What's in the file?" Eames asked.
Goren flashed her a grin and shrugged.
"I don't know," he answered.
That much was true. Goren had not yet looked at the contents of the file.
There was something he needed to do first.
Bobby glanced around to check that they were out of earshot of anyone that might be listening. He cleared his throat, leaned down, and dropped his voice.
"Do you want to come over tonight? To my place?"
Eames blinked in surprise.
"For…for dinner," Bobby clarified.
Goren didn't invite her over. Whatever it was between them, it had never come with an overt invitation (in so many words).
Years earlier, Goren had given her a key. The rest was implied.
Goren didn't invite her over for dinner. Sure, they'd eaten together plenty of times—pizza from the all-night joint around the block, takeaway boxes of Thai mingled with notes and news clippings.
"Should I pick something up on the way?" Eames asked.
"No. I'll take care of it," Bobby promised.
Bobby stood at the edge of his flat, just inside the kitchen.
As he surveyed the scene before him, Bobby didn't know the hell he'd been thinking when he extended the invitation to Eames at 1PP.
In spite of keeping himself meticulously groomed and well-dressed, Bobby's flat was a wreck.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd hoovered the carpet—let alone when he'd last opened a window.
His home wasn't filthy. It was just disorderly.
Case files were strewn about. They littered the counters, the end tables, and the stacks of books that were piled on the floor. Crime scene diagrams and results from CSU were tacked up on the walls. The main room of his flat was like one giant bullpen, an extension of the Major Case office itself.
The boxes from Carmel Ridge that contained the last of Frances Goren's belongings, the very sum of her life, sat untouched in the corridor outside his bedroom.
Bobby was a decent chef. He knew his way around a kitchen and had a number of staple recipes he could rely on to whip up a decent offering. He'd learned a thing or two during his time in Korea and he genuinely enjoyed experimenting with flavours and textures from abroad.
But his cupboards were hopelessly bare and there wasn't time to run to the store.
He absolutely refused to serve Eames condensed soup.
Bobby covered his face with his hand.
Think.
Think. Think. Think. Think. Think.
He couldn't afford to take her out to a nice restaurant.
Robert Goren's finances were a mess. He was drowning in debt from his mother. The end-of-life care and funeral expenses had eaten through his savings.
It's one night. He thought.
He only had one shot to make this right and he wasn't going to blow it like he had with his mother during their final moments together.
On her drive from 1PP to Brooklyn, Eames had been looking forward to dinner at Bobby's place.
Should I pick something up on the way?
No. I'll take care of it. Bobby promised.
There had been something so foreign in his voice and posture. Eames couldn't quite put her finger on it.
Charm?
She dashed the thought as quickly as it came. Robert Goren was many things (and perhaps even captivating in his own, strange way).
But charming?
Eames chalked this new behaviour up to part of the grieving process. Bobby's mother had been a huge part of his life—for better or worse.
He needed to mourn both the loss of his mother and of the kind of loving, familial relationship they would never get to have.
Frances Goren's death was also an opportunity for Bobby to close that chapter of his life. He could move forward free of the uncomfortable weekly visits to Carmel Ridge. His mother was no longer suffering from the agony of the cancer that had riddled her body.
The loss was devastating—and freeing.
Grief was complicated like that.
Eames was happy for him. She had seen the burden that caretaking took on Bobby—especially since he'd borne it alone.
But when she arrived and saw that his flat was cleaned, the table was set for two, and that he was, well… groomed, Alex was gripped with fear.
Her chest went tight when Goren offered to take her coat.
It wasn't anything fancy. He'd settled on ordering pasta from the pizza joint around the corner along with an inexpensive bottle of wine.
Alex Eames wasn't the type of person that was impressed by material things. She'd never asked nor expected Bobby to 'wow' her.
Like herself, her needs were straightforward. She wanted respect and honesty, a commitment from her partner—she had his back, and she needed to know that he had hers in return.
In all the years that she'd known Robert Goren, she had never once actually seen his table. It was always packed high with boxes or folders or books taking up every available inch of real estate.
Not only was the table clean and set, but Bobby also fished out place settings that had not seen the light of day since he moved his mother from Brooklyn to Mount Carmel in 1990.
There were candles.
A bottle of champagne sat chilling in the sink next to a plate of strawberries.
"Eames—"
He stopped.
"Alex," he said, correcting himself.
Alex.
Eames swallowed hard. She was never 'Alex.' Even in bed, he still usually called her 'Eames.'
"There's something that I have wanted to say for a long time," Bobby began.
This is not happening. Eames thought.
She cringed. Eames couldn't tell him 'no,' not right after losing his mother. But she certainly couldn't say 'yes.'
"You've been so much more than just a partner to me."
Eames braced herself for the uncomfortable fallout.
It must have been obvious because Bobby followed her line of sight to the table and blanched.
"Oh! Oh no, no, no, no!"
Bobby frantically waved his hands to make clear that he was not about to drop the bomb that she thought he was building toward.
Bobby clapped his hand over his face and squeezed his eyes shut. He was humiliated.
You stupid fucking idiot. He thought.
"Eames."
Choose your words carefully, Goren.
"God, I'm shit at this," he confessed.
Bobby laughed nervously. Then he blushed.
Eames froze. Bobby had seen the same face many times—usually when they walked into a fresh crime scene, and she was trying to settle somewhere between professionally appropriate anger and utter revulsion.
Goren's mouth went dry. He was losing her. Eames was ready to bolt, to run as far and fast as she could from Robert Goren and his stupid fucking champagne and strawberries.
"Just… just please. I have to say this," Bobby pleaded.
He scratched at his chin as he began to pace around the room.
"I wanted to say thank you. You know, for being there for me? For always being there for me," Bobby explained.
He tugged at the collar of his shirt to get some air.
"For being… being my, my partner."
She was so much more than that—but Bobby didn't have the words.
"I don't uh… well, I never would have kept my job in Major Case this long without you running interference on my behalf and protecting me. And… pleading for me when you had to," Goren acknowledged with a sheepish grin.
Eames was stiff as a board as she waited for him to finish.
"That's uh… that's, well, that's what I wanted to tell you," he concluded.
Eames visibly staggered. She clutched the edge of the cupboard for support. She let out a long, relieved breath.
Bobby chuckled as he rocked back and forth on his heels.
"You thought I was uh—"
"Yeah," Eames replied with a small scowl, halfway between grateful and pissed off.
She rolled her shoulders and shook out her arms to relieve some of the tension.
"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you," Bobby apologised.
"Well, you fucking did!" Eames scolded him.
She was breathing hard, still reeling from the shock.
Bobby cocked his head to the side as he studied her.
"Would it really be that bad?" he asked.
Eames hesitated to answer. She was too taken aback by the question.
Was he really… is he?
To Bobby, it looked as if she was protecting his feelings. He wasn't asking for her hand in marriage—he was only curious.
But Eames's hesitancy only fed into his internalised fears surrounding Mark Ford Brady.
Bobby swallowed back that pain and forced a laugh.
"Let's eat, huh?" he suggested.
"Leave them," Bobby said.
"It's no trouble," Eames replied as she stacked up the dishes.
Bobby didn't push back. Instead, he collected the trash and disposed of it in the bin in the closet behind the door.
Eames was at the sink, rinsing the plates as she glanced around for a clean towel. She froze when she felt Bobby come up behind her.
Bobby swept her hair to the side and pressed a lingering kiss at the nape of Alex's neck.
"Leave them," he echoed in a low voice.
That night, Bobby took the keys. He wanted to drive for a change.
They were lying in bed, half-spooning. Alex was sandwiched like a pretzel somewhere between Bobby and, well… the rest of Bobby.
Somehow, he was behind her and beside her and between her all at once.
He hovered close, watching her every move. Alex threw her left leg up and over Bobby's shoulder. He planted his hand on the back of her thigh to hold it in place as he rocked against her.
Bobby resisted the urge to close his eyes and give himself over the feeling because he wanted to watch, to denote every part of it to memory—from the soft, repetitive mantra of indecipherable noises that fell from Alex's lips to the way her cheeks flushed every time Bobby's thumb caressed the back of her thigh.
He moved slowly, savouring each sensation and sound as if she were a rare vintage to be sipped rather than consumed.
He took his time because he wanted it to last.
Bobby could spend a lifetime with Eames, and it would never be enough. He hovered above Alex, watching each twitch of her face, every flutter of her eyelashes.
Alex's mouth fell open.
She did not speak—at least not in any coherent language. They had moved beyond words by that point.
She keened with each slow thrust.
Bobby could watch her in ecstasy always.
He'd never told Alex that he loved her—not in so many words.
Bobby wasn't sure if he did.
How could one tell?
Bobby wasn't even sure if he was capable of love. He'd certainly never experienced it in any health or 'normal' way.
The trauma and instability that marked his childhood had left Bobby with a deep curiosity about the human condition.
It was why he asked direct, impertinent questions to the sex workers his father visited and why Bobby bored strippers to death with his endless conversation and curiosity. When stationed in Korea, he'd once spent four hours in deep, esoteric conversation with a sex worker. He didn't know the boys on base had hired her to try and loosen him up.
His lovemap was distorted.
His developing brain had never gotten the chance to observe a conventional relationship outside of literature and media.
He had only his playboy father, his volatile mother, unstable Frank, and the likes of Mark Ford Brady.
'Uncle' Mark.
Brady was a sadist. He was a sociopath—a true, diagnosed sociopath incapable of empathy, unable to form any lasting emotional connection to people.
Bobby's relationship with Eames was the longest and closest relationship he'd ever had with anyone.
He didn't know if that was love. He had no reference point. But he understood her. That much he knew for certain.
Bobby could sense that Alex was close. Her determined little brow furrowed. Bobby leaned in close, smiling as he kissed it. She whimpered in response to the increased pressure.
Bobby reached for her hand, intertwining his fingers with her own.
"Look at me," he whispered.
Alex opened her eyes. Her breath hitched. Bobby grinned like an idiot. His eyes began to well up with tears.
Alex smiled back. It spread across her face—slow and shy—until she was beaming.
Bobby was going to miss that smile.
He held her gaze as Alex's body first tensed, then trembled beneath him. Bobby's expression softened as he tucked an errant strand of hair behind her dainty ear.
"I love you."
It slipped out before Alex could stop herself.
Alex's eyes widened in surprise. She opened her mouth to explain, but Bobby silenced her with a kiss before she could utter a sound.
Bobby nuzzled against her face. Alex melted from the friction of rough stubble against her cheek.
"I love you," she murmured again.
Bobby captured her lips in a slow, leisurely kiss as if to seal her confession. He yearned to stay in that moment forever.
They laid together in silence—Alex lying atop Bobby, her head nestled safely against his shoulder.
He loved the way she fit there, the way their bodies fit together, the way she made him feel small and safe even if her arm span was too little to quite fit around his chest.
Bobby Goren was a big boy. He'd always been broad shouldered. In recent years, he'd grown soft around the middle. Age, metabolism, stress, and his ever-dwindling finances meant he was carrying more weight.
Eames didn't mind.
For a brief moment, Bobby mused that maybe Eames was really the one that had cracked.
Because between the two of them, she was the one that could easily pull away. She could start fresh, salvage her career, and (perhaps) a sense of normalcy.
Only she wanted him.
Grey hair, soft belly, crackpot routine and all.
Bobby reached for Alex's hand. He pulled it to his lips—first pressing a kiss to each finger before moving to her wrist.
"This is what I got the champagne for," he said.
Alex sat up in bed. She blinked and averted her attention to the far wall.
"Bobby, I—"
She pulled her knees close. Her shoulders slumped forward as she buried her head against them. Alex instinctively reached for her necklace.
"I like what we are. I like what we have. It's comfortable," she said as she ran her thumb over the small cross that hung on the dainty chain.
A beat passed.
"But?" Bobby prompted.
Eames's body went straight. She turned to look back down over her shoulder at him.
"No 'but.' I like comfortable. People undervalue comfortable," she explained.
"But?" he repeated slowly.
Eames sighed.
"Champagne? Really? Strawberries?" she asked, shaking her head.
Bobby had to admit that, in hindsight, it was a wee bit foolish.
"It must seem pretty uh… pretty amateur hour, huh?" he asked.
Bobby could laugh at himself.
"I'm just glad you didn't show up at the door in silk pyjamas," Eames shot back.
At that, they both laughed.
Bobby sat up and wrapped his arms around Alex. He rested his chin on her shoulder, enveloping her in his embrace.
Suddenly, the mood in the room shifted.
"You have so enriched my life that I don't think I can begin to cover all that I've learned from you, how much I've grown, the strength I draw from you," Bobby confessed.
Unlike his usual stumbling timbre, this was spoken with perfect clarity. His voice didn't waver. Bobby didn't fidget.
"I just wanted you to know that, Alex."
He kissed the side of her cheek.
Bobby wasn't sure if he loved her. He didn't know what true love felt like. And he did not think their relationship was what it was supposed to look like.
But saying those words felt right.
Shortly after 7:00, Eames moved to get out of bed.
Bobby's hand shot out and caught her arm.
"Stay," he pleaded.
Alex laughed and slipped away from his grasp to search for her clothes on the floor. It was Wednesday. Bobby had planned things that way because Alex was supposed to be off.
"I can't," she said as she hoisted her trousers on.
Bobby sat up. He smiled, belying just how anxious he was at the sight of her departure.
"I-I-I can fix breakfast?" he offered.
"I'm sorry. I can't," Eames replied.
Bobby panicked.
She couldn't be leaving already. Not so soon.
"W-what's so pressing? Is it a case? Maybe we could go through the files?"
Eames shook her head.
She said something about having to stop out to see her dad. The sound was muffled as Eames pulled her shirt on.
"I gotta go to my dad's," she repeated.
Bobby hadn't been the only one with a caretaker role and stubborn aging parent.
She paused to pull her hair out from under the collar.
"Oh," Bobby said with feigned politeness.
Alex rocked her neck from side to side. She scanned the floor of Bobby's bedroom for her coat before realising that it was out in the main room.
"Are you sure you can't just stay? A cup of tea? We could… we could talk?" Bobby asked.
He was frantically searching for any reason to prolong their morning together.
Alex frowned. She dropped her gaze to the floor, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
"Is this because of what I said last night?" she asked.
She lifted her chin to study Bobby's response.
He did not react.
Alex took a deep breath. She nodded slowly. Alex was still mortified that she'd let those three little words slip out the night before.
But it's not just three little words, is it? Alex thought.
Those words held power.
All of a sudden, Eames squared her shoulders.
"I'm not ashamed," she announced.
A broad smile spread slowly across Bobby's face. His hair was a mess. He was sitting naked in bed except for the sheet around his waist. His hands were lying flat on top of it, unmoving.
And he just sat there grinning like a schoolboy that had just shared his first kiss with a pretty girl.
Eames hadn't anticipated that reaction and it made her feel warm inside.
"Are you sure I can't make you pancakes or something?" Bobby asked.
Eames was tempted— very tempted. Bobby could see her mulling it over. She bit her lip and wiggled her head back and forth.
"No. No, I gotta get up to Inwood," she said after a moment.
A swing and a miss. Bobby mused.
Eames pointed back over her shoulder with her thumb, gesturing toward the door.
"I should go," she said.
"Yeah," Bobby replied.
She was nearly there when he called out, stopping her just shy of the doorframe.
"I'm not upset," Bobby said.
Eames froze.
Bobby was staring at his lap now, unable to meet her gaze.
"I… I just. There's some things with my mum and settling her affairs and it's… it's not you. It's not what happened or what you said. That was—"
Bobby paused to laugh at his misfortune.
"That was great. It's just that—"
"It's shit timing," Eames finished for him.
Bobby glanced up and chuckled.
"Oh… you have no idea," he remarked.
Alex suspected that she had some idea. She also had an inkling that Bobby wasn't being honest. He'd been unable to look at her, stammering to himself through that particular monologue and not in the way he did to try and draw out information during an interrogation.
What Eames didn't know was the real reason why Bobby couldn't bring himself to look at her.
"I've got oatmeal too," he pleaded.
He flashed her the sweetest smile he could muster.
Eames smirked and shook her head. Bobby got the hint.
"Hey uh… I don't exactly know when I'll be, you know, back to work."
"Of course," Eames said, assuring him that she could handle the caseload.
"I just, I want things to be… comfortable between us."
Eames shrugged. She assumed that was an understanding they shared. What they did in privacy outside of work didn't need to impact their time on the job.
"You know, no matter what happens," Goren insisted.
He paused and shrugged.
"Comfortable is nice. It's as you said, undervalued. Taken for granted."
Alex Eames couldn't have been more pleased that morning.
In spite of the rocky start the night before, she left Goren's feeling pleasantly surprised. He was still working through the grief from his mother's death. And Eames understood that would take time.
But she was relieved beyond all expectation that Bobby had reached out to her.
He wasn't isolating himself. He hadn't jumped on the defensive when she let her feelings slip.
In fact, if she didn't know any better, Alex could have sworn he was rue to see her go.
Like he doesn't want to be alone.
Unfortunately, she had to be at her father's. She needed to take him to an appointment and could not reschedule.
She had no way to know the real reason why Bobby didn't want her to go nor why he'd asked her to dinner in the first place.
He needed her.
He needed to make abundantly clear to Alex Eames just how deep his feelings ran, that he treasured what they shared, and that she meant more to him than he could convey with words alone.
One night.
Bobby needed to do all of that before he was prepared to open the results from Rodgers because he knew that he couldn't do it—wouldn't do it—after.
Deep down, he knew that he loved Alex Eames—even if he wasn't ready to admit that to himself.
He loved the way her hair smelled, her biting wit, and the way her nose scrunched up whenever she was deep in thought.
He loved her mind.
It was why he'd invited her to dinner. It was the same reason he took his time the night before, and why he tried so hard to prolong their time together.
Because Bobby Goren already knew the answer to those test results.
And he needed to say goodbye.
They did not speak for five weeks.
The first time she called to check in and Goren didn't answer, Eames let it drop. She wasn't fazed when he failed to call her back.
Bobby could get lost in his own world. For all she knew, he was at the library using his bereavement leave to learn the intricacies of anthropological records of indigenous arctic migration or early neoclassical art.
She left a voicemail on the third day.
When a week went by without any word, Eames decided to swing by Goren's place after work.
The light was on in his flat.
Eames knocked twice—but there was no answer.
It wasn't late. Bobby might have stepped out to get a bite or gone to the library.
Eames was about to let herself when she thought better of it. Her hand hovered above the deadbolt.
Doubt crept into the pit of her stomach.
Had she scared Bobby off?
Was her confession too much for him?
Bobby was in an emotional place. His mind was in turmoil. And Eames suspected there was more to that mysterious report from the ME's office than Bobby had let on.
Schizophrenia could be heritable. Though rare to present after forty, Eames knew the fear of that diagnosis weighed heavily on her partner.
Bobby was the armchair geneticist. Eames wondered if he'd tapped Rodgers to run some discreet genetic testing.
Or something else?
Goren had a tendency to retreat in on himself. He compartmentalised. He didn't like to talk about his feelings or share his fears—even with Eames.
Alex was about to knock again. She raised her fist and stopped just shy of the door. After hesitating, she retracted her hand.
Leave him be.
For now.
On the opposite side of the door, Goren sat alone in the dark as puffed away at another cigarette.
He'd heard the knock. He didn't have to check through the peephole to know it was Eames.
He switched off the lamp next to the recliner and the room fell dark.
Fitting. He mused.
Goren fought against every instinct in his mind. It took all of his willpower not to get up and chase after her.
Instead, he settled for a quick glance down at the street below.
On her way out of Goren's building, Eames stopped. She glanced back over her shoulder up at the window of Bobby's flat—noting that it was now dark and the quick flash of someone peeking through the blinds.
Surly bastard.
Alex slammed the door to her car harder than intended. She sat at the wheel for a moment, steadying herself for the drive back.
Bobby had pulled back in on himself.
Should have kept your fucking mouth shut, Eames.
The next day, Eames was at her desk sorting through a pile of phone records.
"I thought you had the day off?" Ross asked as he approached her desk.
Eames did not look up from work.
"I had a hunch about that call from Donnellson. I don't think I'll be able to rest until I track this one down, Captain."
Ross understood. He'd been there plenty of times himself.
"Look, you've got a lot on your plate. Let me reassign that art theft thing to Barek and Logan," Ross suggested.
"I can handle it."
"Okay," Ross agreed. "Then let me assign you some help."
Eames visibly stiffened.
"Just temporarily," Ross added quickly. "There's a slew of applicants just waiting to dip their toes into Major Case. This might be a good way to get a feel for some of them. See what they can bring to the table."
"I have a partner."
Eames's voice was colder than intended.
Captain Ross sat down on the edge of her desk and folded his hands across his leg.
"You do. But we don't know when Goren is coming back. He's got two more weeks of leave and a mountain of accumulated PTO hours. The guy's never taken a day off," Ross remarked.
That didn't begin to cover the unpaid personal leave that Goren was entitled to.
"I ran the numbers," Ross said quietly.
If Goren decided to take a leave of absence, he could be gone for months. Eames was terrified that Bobby might just get a little too comfortable on his own and decide he didn't need to come back to the NYPD at all.
And that would suit her just fine. She wouldn't have to cope with the embarrassment of facing Goren again and pretending that she hadn't accidentally let an 'I love you' slip during a casual hookup.
An annoying voice in the back of Alex's mind responded with a swift kick.
She was lying to herself to protect her feelings.
There was nothing casual about it. Those feelings were real. The emotion she had felt radiating off him that night was sincere.
"Eames? Eames?"
It was the third time Ross had tried to get her attention.
"What if you and I work this case?" Ross suggested.
He was trying to compromise, to find a way to help her keep her head above water until they could revisit the matter of her partner's absence at a later date. Ross recognised, and could appreciate, the loyalty that came from a strong partnership.
Though unconventional, he admired the work that Eames and Goren put in.
It was part of the reason he was concerned that Goren had gone on silent running. He wasn't taking Ross's calls either.
Sooner or later, they would have to talk about the possibility that Goren might not return—but they had some time.
Ross suggested that they move their work into the conference room. He didn't want Eames to feel crowded by taking up a temporary place at Goren's desk.
It wasn't all bad.
Ross confessed that he was grateful for the distraction. He had a joint custody agreement with his ex-wife. She kept the kids during the week and Ross got them on the weekends.
They poured over months of phone records from their suspect and his known associates while exchanging casual conversation over a takeaway.
"Saint Patrick's Day is only a few weeks out. I'd suggest that, if you are going to submit a request off, to do it soon," Ross said.
Eames glanced up from her work and blinked.
"I just assumed that with everything going on lately that maybe it slipped your mind," Ross said.
Eames didn't follow.
"Eames. That's an Irish name, right?" Ross inquired.
He didn't need her name to piece that much together. She was a dynasty cop from Inwood. Eames had five siblings. She gave up her precious time off to drive to her father to Mass like any good little Catholic girl.
Hell, she'd been widowed at thirty-one.
Her story couldn't read any more New York working-class Irish American melodrama than if it had been written in 1889 and Joe had left her five kids.
"I assumed since you're a Sister Emerald…"
Ross trailed off. He could sense that he'd struck a nerve. Eames quickly recovered and waved it off.
"That's just… I'm not…uh." Eames stumbled through an explanation. "My family… well, that's their thing. Not really my cuppa."
The Emerald Society billed itself as an Irish-American fraternal organisation for law enforcement, fire service, and other civil servants. Eames thought it was nothing more than a glorified boys' club.
Each year, the group hosted a large presence to march in the annual St Patrick's Day parade. It was a big draw for the city and tourists as well—particularly the massed pipes and drums.
"Dad was always big on that stuff. Not really my cuppa. I haven't done anything with them in years except drive my father to Bingo with his old buddies."
"Oh."
Ross nodded politely before turning back to the pile of papers before him.
"It is fun, you know? The parade." Ross mused aloud. "I've got to walk—orders came down from the Chief of D's. I'm going to pick Logan up that morning. If you wanted to join us—"
"No."
Alex reached for her necklace, thumbing the cross absentmindedly.
"I mean, no. Thank you," she said in a much softer voice. "I've seen enough drunks pissing in the street to last a lifetime."
She flashed the Captain a smile and hoped that Ross would interpret her remark as nothing more than her typically dry humour.
Eames's hunch about the phone records paid off. And by Saturday, they had a solid case to bring charges.
Only moments after securing Carver's approval for an arrest warrant, Ross got the call that they'd been pinched at the poke.
The FBI was grateful for the NYPD's efforts. But their suspect was a part of a larger RICO investigation—meaning no bust, no trial, and no justice for their victim.
Bobby had gone silent. The FBI had just pinched her best case. And Eames was only hours away from…
Alex shook away the memory.
She shivered as she stepped out into the chilly night air. The wind whipped alongside the building and right down to her bones.
Fuck February. Eames thought bitterly.
All of a sudden, her foot made contact with something wet and cold. A tell-tale damp feeling crept into her sock.
She had stepped right into one of the half-frozen puddles on the pavement in front of 1PP.
Yes, fuck February. And March for that matter.
The parking garage below 1PP filled up fast. It had been full that morning when Eames originally went in. So, she'd been forced to park across the street at a garage shared mostly by employees at 1PP and City Hall.
Eames pulled her coat tighter and marched off into the dark.
At least things couldn't possibly get worse.
"Eames!"
It was so windy that she'd barely heard the shout.
"Eames!"
She stopped and whipped around, scanning the darkness for any sign of life. Eames didn't recognise the voice and that left her both confused and concerned.
A lanky figure slinked out from the shadows. His eyes were sunken. His threadbare coat clung to his shaking frame, a dead giveaway to the years of addiction that had left him a hollow shell.
At first, Eames was hit with a wave of pity at the sight of him.
It quickly dissolved into anger.
"I don't have time to talk to you, Frank," Eames announced.
She wasn't about to get in the middle of whatever latest spat had come between the estranged Goren brothers. Goren had tried to establish clear boundaries with his brother, Frank. Time and again, Bobby himself blew right through them in order to make his mother happy or to ensure Frank didn't smoke or snort himself into an early death from nose candy.
A part of Alex also felt an instinctive need to protect her partner.
She had a sneaking suspicion that Frank had come looking for a handout. Bobby would oblige like he always did, and that money would be as good as gone by the end of the week.
Bobby had just finished taking care of his mother. He didn't need a new crisis to solve. Not now.
Frank glanced back at the door to 1PP.
"Don't you usually drive together?" Frank asked.
"He's not here, Frank," Eames said.
With that, she turned to go.
"I know! I know!" Frank said, chasing after her.
It was difficult for Eames to out-pace the lanky Goren stride. She wasn't going to run. She wasn't afraid of Frank in any way—just annoyed.
"Please! I gotta talk to him."
To Eames's frustration, Frank got in front of her. She swung left to go around him.
"Eames, please," Frank said, imploring her to give him a break.
"Nope," Eames said as held up her hand to signify the conversation was at an end.
"Honey, I gotta talk to Bobby," Frank called after her.
Eames froze. She turned on her heel and marched back to Frank.
"I've already told you that he is not here. If he's not taking your calls—look to yourself for the reason. And if you ever call me 'honey' again—"
Frank grinned sheepishly, the uncanny image of his brother after Bobby squeezed a confession from a suspect.
"Well, it worked," Frank said with a shrug.
"I don't have time for this."
Frank's arm shot out to stop her. Eames glanced down at the hand on her shoulder. His fingers were frozen. He could barely grip her shoulder because of the cold. Frank didn't even have a pair of proper gloves. He was wearing a pair of socks with a hole cut in the end.
Embarrassed, Frank retracted his hand.
"I'm sorry to have bothered you," he said, backing away. "I'll just uh… I'll just wait back there."
In a flash, Alex's anger subsided.
"Frank, wait. He's not coming out. He's not here," she reiterated.
Frank chuckled.
"He tell you to say that?" he asked with a smile. "Naw, it's fine. He can't hide in there from me forever, right?"
Alex frowned and shook her head.
He must be really desperate for a fix.
Frank had to be in order to wait outside in the frigid air for so long.
"I know you don't want to get involved and what not. But if you could just tell him that I need to speak with him? I know what you think—but I'm not here for money or nothing. I just need to speak with Bobby," Frank pleaded.
You and me both. Eames thought.
Frank brought his hands to his mouth and blew on them. He rubbed them together furiously to try and bring back the circulation.
Eames shivered. The wet sock in her boot was starting to freeze—but it was nothing compared to what Frank was feeling.
The skin on his face and ears were a deep shade of red from having been out in the cold and wind all day. It was already after 10:30.
"Frank? How long have you been out here?"
Frank was bouncing back and forth from foot to foot, doing anything he could to keep the circulation going.
"Uh… I got off the bus at City Hall around 2:00. I took the wrong stop," Frank said.
It wasn't a long walk from City Hall to 1PP—only about ten minutes—but it was freezing.
"Go home, Frank. Bobby is not here. He won't be here tomorrow either. And he is not going to help you fund your next fix," Eames said.
Frank was crushed.
"It's not about that," he said.
A dark, concerned look crossed Frank's face.
"I've been clean. I'm in this group. A church. They're helping me. I even got a ride from my sponsor up to see Ma. But… but the people at Carmel Ridge told me I can't see her no more," Frank went on. "They said… they said she ain't there no more."
Frank paused and took a shaky breath.
"And if he moved her, yanno, someplace to get care then I gotta know. I wanna know."
Alex's heart sank.
"I'm not mad. My mobile got shut off. I know it wasn't Bobby's fault if he tried to call or anything."
"Frank—"
"I got a job now. And the church has a phone I can use. They'll take messages for me. I can give you the number to give Bobby," Frank continued, ignoring Eames's attempts to call his attention.
He shared that he was hoping to find a way for the Goren brothers to go visit their mother together the next time Bobby went.
"But if she's moved to a new home then maybe I can go more often?" Frank said.
He stopped and grinned.
Alex wasn't smiling.
"Frank," she began slowly.
The look on her face said it all. Frank paused, eyeing Eames as if she were a spectre that had slipped out of the shadows.
"No," he said, shaking his head.
Eames softened her voice.
"Frank —"
He stepped back, reeling from the news. His mind couldn't process the fact his mother was really gone, and that Frank had not been there. He needed to cling the delusion that she had simply been moved to a different facility.
"No. No, no, no, no, no," Frank muttered.
He staggered—in part from the cold and in part because of the shock.
Alex gently laid her hand on his arm.
"I am so sorry," she apologised.
A gut-wrenching, unholy noise ripped from Frank's lungs as he collapsed to his knees. Eames stood awkwardly next to him—first patting Frank's back and the rubbing her hand in a circle as he sobbed.
He was inconsolable.
Eames sighed. The last thing Bobby needed was for someone to see Goren's even more deranged brother having a mental breakdown on 1PP's doorstep.
A gust of wind was all Eames needed to seal her decision.
"C'mon, Frank. It's cold. You don't want to be out here tonight," she said.
She reached down and helped drag Frank to his feet. He was heavier than he looked. Eames surmised maybe there was a grain of truth in the claim he'd been clean as of late.
Eames couldn't just send Frank on his way. Even if she walked him to the subway station herself, there was no way she was leaving Frank to his own devices.
A tragic loss could easily trigger an addict. The temptation was strong to slip back into euphoria.
Frank was barely cognizant as she guided him down the pavement. Even if he didn't turn to a substance, he was in no condition to be alone. Frank would make an easy target wandering around in a half-delirious state.
Eames wouldn't be able to live with herself if something happened to Frank because she told him to pound sand.
She had him into the car before Frank uttered a word.
"Are… are you t-taking me to see Bobby?" he sobbed.
"No, Frank."
Eames turned the ignition and then shivered against the cold. Frank buried his head in his hands. Again, he asked to see his brother.
Not gonna happen. Eames thought.
She sure as hell wasn't about to drop Frank off at Bobby's in such a state. Goren didn't need that kind of pressure.
"Y-y-you don't want me in your place. I g-get it," Frank sniffled.
Eames scowled.
"Frank, I don't live with your brother."
"I know, I know. I don't blame you," Frank said, ignoring her.
He paused and hiccupped. For a moment, Eames thought Frank was finally coming around to a state of mental clarity.
Then a fresh wave of tears took over.
"Just tell Bobby that I l-l-love him!"
Eames went stiff as Frank collapsed against her shoulder, pawing at her arm in the same way her nephew did whenever he toddled out in tears and demanded to be held.
That's it. I've finally snapped. Eames thought.
She hesitantly reached over to pat Frank's shoulder. It wasn't exactly motherly—but Eames was torn between protecting Bobby and the compassion she felt for his brother in that moment.
Frank really was a creature that evoked pity.
"Bobby's really lucky to have you," Frank said between tears. "And… and you two are great. Ma really wanted to meet you."
Eames was taken aback. Goren had never mentioned that he'd spoken with his mother about them. Alex understood how fragile things had been between Bobby and his mother.
Frances Goren hadn't adapted well to change. She even blew if two of the nursing staff switched shifts. Eames could think of no reason to share such information.
Unless…
For a brief moment, Alex considered the possibility that Bobby Goren's feelings really did run deeper than he'd previously let alone. And that, perhaps, he truly wasn't ghosting Alex over her confession.
"I promised ma that I'd tell your kids all about her. You know, someday when you get there. Uncle Frank," he said, sniffling with pride.
"Frank. Goren and I do not… we don't have that kind of relationship."
It was the best excuse Eames could settle on.
Frank dropped his gaze to his hands. He put them up against the vent as hot air began to emanate out into the car.
"Why not?" Frank asked.
Eames was floored.
She blinked in disbelief that Frank had the gall to ask that question at such a time. She was at a loss for words—torn somewhere between outright denial and astonishment that Frank might suspect anything.
Frank just shrugged shyly.
"Bobby's not the only one that can read people, you know?" Frank said. "He looks at you the same way he used to watch the little redhead that lived down the street."
Frank panicked.
"I was eleven. Bobby was nine. They weren't uh… they were never anything. I don't think he ever worked up the courage to even talk to her. She moved away a few years later," Frank rambled, quickly hoping to assure Eames that there was no competition or lost flame in Bobby's past.
So, Goren had a thing for the little redhead down the block?
Eames made a mental note to tuck that information away for their next case involving a redhead. She could just imagine flustering him with that tidbit.
She was hit with a pang of apprehension.
If we even work another case.
Eames would have found it all amusing if the situation weren't so dire.
"When did it happen?" Frank asked.
"Uh… three weeks ago," Eames answered.
She was still trying to process her own thoughts.
"Was she… I mean, was it peaceful?"
Eames's mouth went dry. She glanced over and met Frank's eyes. Alex recognised that look. It spoke of regret and grief, sorrow, curiosity driven by fear all rolled into one. Frank needed answers because he hadn't been there to see it happen.
It was a feeling Eames understood from first-hand experience.
"I don't uh… I don't know, Frank," she answered honestly.
Goren hadn't spoken about the details—only that his mother had passed.
"And the service? Was it nice? I mean, did ma get flowers and stuff?"
Eames nodded.
"Yeah. There were flowers," she said.
She didn't have the heart to tell Frank that it was quite small and everyone in attendance had come to support Goren rather than mourn his mother.
Eames wanted to chew Frank out for leaving Bobby to face it alone, only she bit her tongue. Her lecture would be wasted on the likes of Frank.
"Bobby must be pretty pissed, huh?" Frank remarked.
That's an understatement. Eames thought.
Frank caught the brief flash of sarcasm in Eames reaction. He smirked, wagging his finger at Eames.
"You wanted to say something, but you thought better of it," Frank said knowingly. "You're protecting him. You're worried that might swoop in and do what I do. Wreck things."
Frank glanced around the parking garage.
"I won't tell anybody," Frank promised.
Eames blew. She whipped around and glared at Frank.
"And just what do you think there is to tell, Frank?" she demanded.
He wasn't scared off.
"Well, for starters—you didn't deny it," Frank said. "And you're fishing."
"I'm not fishing!" Eames insisted angrily.
She didn't know if she was trying to convince Frank or herself.
"He's a good guy, yanno? He could take care of you."
With a single look from Eames, Frank threw up his hands in the universal sign of surrender.
"Not that I'm saying you need a man to take care of you," Frank added. "I'm just saying that ehhhhh… you're tense, you know? You could probably do with a—"
He paused, rocking his head back and forth.
"Be good for Bobby too," Frank concluded.
Eames fought the urge to toss Frank out of her car. Instead, she threw the car into gear much harder than intended.
"I'm not having this conversation with you," Eames declared.
She peeled out of the parking garage.
"Where are we going? Are you taking me to Bobby's?" Frank asked.
"No. I'm taking you home," Eames said.
"Like… like to your home?" Frank asked, confused.
"Absolutely not," Eames answered in a cold voice. "Where are you staying Frank?"
He quickly dismissed the idea.
"Oh, you don't want to go there," he said. "You can just drop me off wherever."
"I'm driving you home, Frank," Eames insisted.
Yet when she asked for a location, Frank grew cagey.
"It's all the way up in Hunt's Point. You don't want to go that far," Frank said.
It was a long drive and in the opposite direction. But Eames wasn't going to leave Frank out in the cold. The Nor'-east winds were wicked, and he could easily succumb to the elements if he tried to make it on his own.
"Look, you can just drop me off up the block. There's an all-night diner. Cheap coffee. I'll be fine. I'll wait there until it warms up in the morning," Frank said.
"I'm not going to do that," Eames replied as she turned to make her way north through Manhattan.
"No, no. You don't want to do that. Hunt's Point is a long way. And… and it's dangerous. A lady like you shouldn't be going there," Frank said, grasping for an excuse.
Eames wasn't fazed.
"My old stompin' grounds," Eames shared.
Frank snorted with laughter.
"You ain't from the Bronx," Frank said.
"I'm not. I worked there."
"Awww… now you're just putting me on," Frank said.
"Five years in Vice. Three of them up in Hunt's Point."
Eames had spent most of her time in Vice there save for a stint in Chelsea. Hunt's Point was one of the most concentrated areas for sex work in the city. Chelsea had been one big yuppy art scene with wannabee Andy Warhols living off family money in their gentrified row homes.
The two worlds could not have been more apart.
"Yeah? Patrolling the streets in a fur coat and platform heels?" Frank teased.
"Something like that," Eames shot back without missing a beat.
Eames turned north onto FDR drive. It ran the length of Manhattan right along the Hudson River.
"Eames, look. Just pull off and drop me somewhere near here, okay?"
"I'm not gonna do that, Frank," she reiterated. "Now tell me, where am I taking you?"
Frank hesitated.
"Look, Frank. I don't care what place you're living in, alright? Don't feel embarrassed."
They were at an impasse.
Frank dropped his head. He tapped his foot anxiously.
"Frank," Eames pressed.
"The truth is I don't… uh, I don't have a place right now. I'm staying at the shelter at the church," he confessed.
Eames bit back a sigh of irritation.
Finally!
"What church?"
Frank fumbled for an answer.
"Frank," Eames snapped.
He shrank into his seat.
"The shelter closed its doors at eight. There's a strict curfew. I'm not even supposed to be out overnight, you forfeit your place," Frank explained.
He admitted to lying—spinning a tale that he had gone to stay with his brother overnight to visit his mother the following day.
Frank would probably lose his spot for good once they found out he'd been dishonest about his whereabouts and that his mother was already gone.
"Shame too, they're helping me get a place. I'm supposed to move in at the start of the month," he lamented.
Nevertheless, Eames continued on the path north.
"You are staying at a church in Hunt's Point. That's not a lie, Frank?" Eames questioned.
"Honest," Frank replied.
"You better be," Eames warned. "Or you're gonna have a long walk home."
Shortly before midnight, Eames pulled into a motel in Hunt's Point, Bronx. If Frank truly was staying at the church he claimed to be at, he was only a short walk away.
It wasn't anything fancy. In fact, it had a reputation as a bit of a roach motel. But it was clean in the sense that the management didn't put up with drug use on the property.
Eames didn't have the funds to put Frank up anywhere nice and she was not going to allow him to set foot in her home.
That was a hard limit.
At first, the manager looked confused by the mismatched pair. The manager caught a flash of Eames's badge when she reached for her wallet.
"Whoa, hey. I don't want no trouble," the manager said, now wary that Frank was some witness being put up for the night because he needed protection.
"He's not a witness. He's just… cold," Eames settled on.
The line of her mouth went thin when Frank threw his arm around her. The stench alone was enough to make her gag.
"My brother's girl is putting me up. She's good like that," Frank said.
Eames glared at Frank as she fished for her card. Frank flashed her a smile in response.
"I know, I know. It's not that type of relationship," Frank said with an exaggerated wink.
Eames didn't react as she handed her bank card over to the motel manager.
"I'll pay you back," Frank promised.
If wishes were horses.
"You want to pay me back? Make things right with your brother," Eames said. "And do not ever mention this to him. You hear?"
Eames marched out without another word, waving off Frank's promise to square things with Bobby.
When she reached her car, she slumped down in the seat and took a breath to calm her nerves. Her eyes fell on the clock.
12:03 a.m.
Alex reached for her necklace. She closed her eyes, clutching it close.
"Happy anniversary, Joe," she whispered.
Sunday came and went without fanfare.
Bobby woke up late after spending the night in his recliner. He'd been out of work for three weeks wallowing in his own self-spiral.
He'd completely shut out the world—ignoring his mail, the calls from Ross, and even blowing off Logan when he dropped by to check on Goren.
But it wasn't just the world that Bobby Goren was hiding from.
He was hiding from his partner.
The results of his DNA test sat open on the table, a daily reminder that he was the spawn of a monster.
Brady wasn't just a killer—he was one of the most prolific and sadistic serial killers to terrorise the Mid-Atlantic.
Ever.
Brady would hang like an albatross around Goren's neck for the rest of his days.
And that was exactly what Brady wanted.
A legacy of terror.
Goren could practically hear Eames's voice in his ear. It was urging him not to give Mark Ford Brady the satisfaction.
I could do with a swift kick in the rear from Eames right about now. Bobby thought.
He'd hated every single minute of his time since their farewell. Bobby felt like a coward. He hadn't even had the courage to be honest with her about that night.
Bobby was miserable. Even if Eames answered, Bobby would probably find himself on the receiving end of a verbal lashing.
And that was just fine.
Bobby would gladly let Eames walk all over him in her little heels if that made her feel better. In any case, he deserved it.
He flipped open his mobile phone and skimmed through all the missed calls from the last ten days.
Bobby had no sense of where Eames was at emotionally. Her messages were professional. They contained no emotional clues.
Bobby was about to call her when there was a soft knock on the door.
Impeccable timing. He mused.
Bobby scrambled out of the recliner. He ran his hand over his chin, embarrassed at the fact that he'd let himself go so long without a shave. He was past stubble but not quite to a beard.
It was nearly noon. Bobby was still wearing his ensemble from the night before. His flannel pyjamas pants weren't necessarily a problem. But he'd spilled soup down the front of his shirt the night before and had been too engrossed in his spiral to get up and change it.
There was no time to change now. Eames was going to be on the other side of that door.
Bobby paused just shy of the door to crack his neck. He rolled his shoulders, straightened his back, and then reached for the door.
"You look like shit."
Eames knelt down and placed the bouquet at the foot of a sleek blue granite gravestone—white roses, ivy, shellflower. The same flowers Eames carried at her wedding now adorned the grave of her late husband.
Joseph Patrick Dutton
29 December 1965 – 13 July 1997
Blessed are the peacemakers.
Alex moved it to the side so as not to obscure the badge number engraved in the corner.
"You probably didn't think I'd be buying you flowers on our anniversary," Eames said. "I know I sure I didn't."
She paused and stuffed her hands in her pockets. The sun was out, but it remained cold. Eames chewed on the inside of her lip as she kicked at a small rock underfoot.
"There's days I hate you, you know?"
It felt good to finally admit that aloud.
Eames had never shared that with anyone—not the counsellor from Victim's Services, not her family.
Not Bobby.
Eames fingers clutched the hem of her coat. She fiddled with the seam as she tried to steady her nerves. Her lip began to tremble.
"But then I think about you lying there by yourself. Knowing what you did. Knowing what was coming. And lying there all alone."
Her voice cracked. It was supposed to be Joe's last undercover assignment.
"And… and I think about how frightened you must have been," Eames sobbed.
She dropped her head and took a shaky breath. She was angry because she loved him, not in spite of it. That anger still flared from time to time—even ten years on.
"Anway, happy anniversary, honey."
"It's about time," Frank remarked.
Goren sneered.
He was irked to find Frank at the door. More than that, he was angry that it wasn't Eames.
"You gonna invite me in or leave me standing out here like a stranger?" Frank asked.
Goren sneered.
"I'm not giving you any more money, Frank."
Frank gestured as if he were taken aback by the assumption, he had come for something so trivial.
"Don't even pretend you came for anything else," Goren warned.
"I didn't. Honest," Frank asserted.
Goren wanted to shut the door on his brother. Frank's foot shot out between the door and the frame to prevent that.
"Whoa, easy!" Frank said. "I've been trying to get a hold of you for days, Bobby."
"And I chose to ignore you. I know you're dense, but learn to take a hint, Frank," Bobby shot back.
"I know about ma."
Silence descended on the brothers. Frank's comment hung between them.
Without a word, Bobby stepped back from the door to allow Frank to slip in past him.
"There's no money, Frank. She didn't have any assets. She was on Medicaid. I've been paying through the nose just to keep her in a private room at Carmel Ridge," fumed Goren.
Goren was agitated and needed something to fixate on. He reached for the pack of smokes on the counter and popped one in his mouth.
"Those things'll kill ya," Frank said.
"Shut up."
Goren lit up, puffing away furiously as leaned over the counter. He couldn't bring himself to even look at Frank.
"How did you know about mum's death?"
Frank didn't answer—so Goren repeated the question.
Once again, Frank remained silent.
"C'mon, Frank. It's a simple question. How did you know about mum's death?" Bobby asked.
He turned and stared down at his older brother, eyeing him with contempt as he closed in.
"Well, Frank? Did you… did you scan all the papers looking for her death notice? Huh? Digging through the trash to try and find out if the clock had run out yet?" Goren snarled.
Frank shrank back against the cupboards.
"It wasn't like that," he said. "Bobby, I swear."
Goren was now toe-to-toe with Frank. Bobby was younger. But he'd always been bigger, and he wasn't afraid to throw his weight around to intimidate a thug.
And in his eyes, Frank was a thug.
"Look, I'm not here about ma. I mean, I am. But not in the way you think."
Frank apologised for not being there at Mount Carmel. He confessed his own fear and insecurity kept him away. It was easier to live in a delusion that his mother was still alive.
"I shoulda been there when you buried her. Maybe we could go together? Bring her some flowers? Ma woulda liked that," Frank said.
Goren scowled and shook his head in disbelief.
"I…I…I'll take care of it. I got a job now," Frank said.
Goren snorted.
He'd heard it all before—the job, the home, the stable life that Frank always swore was right around the corner. If there was one thing to summarise Frank Goren's life it was broken promise built upon broken promise.
And Bobby had been forced to listen to all of it.
For years.
His mother told anyone and everyone that would listen that her older boy, her good boy, Frank the scientist, was out doing God's work to save the world.
The only things Frank had ever cooked up were lies and meth.
"Honest, Bobby. I want to start fresh. I'm in a programme now at that church. They're helping me stay clean," Frank said.
Bobby reached for another cigarette, using his last one to light the second before he smashed it into the ashtray. It was already overflowing. The only time Bobby had left his flat in three weeks was to buy smokes from an all-night bodega down the block.
"What are you? An altar boy now? Nice act, Frank. You're about forty years too late," hissed Goren.
"Do you remember when ma used to drag us to church? And then, when we got home, she'd pull the roast out of the oven?" Frank asked.
Bobby smiled at the memory.
He could still taste it, that first big wave of flavour that hit when they entered the kitchen. The scent of fresh, yeasty rolls and the aroma of butter and potatoes seemed to overpower the cigarette smoke.
"Sunday roast," Bobby said.
"Yeah," Frank agreed.
It was one of the only happy memories they brothers shared.
After their father left, money got tight. Sunday roast dinners became tuna and noodles. And when their mother's mental health continued to decline, the Goren brothers made their own bologna sandwiches.
"You get fired?" Frank asked out of nowhere.
"No."
Suddenly, Goren whipped around. His dark eyes narrowed as he studied Frank's expression.
"Why do you think I've been fired?"
Frank feigned innocence.
"No, no. You wouldn't ask without a reason. So, why did you ask?" Goren demanded.
This time, he wasn't going to let it go.
"I dunno," Frank said. "I just… you're smoking and… Jesus, when was the last time you took a shower? You look worse than I do."
"Do you want to know what I think?" Goren asked. "I think you asked for the same reason you already knew mum died. There wasn't a death notice."
Bobby had been hit with sticker shock at the price of printing just a simple death notice. Even skint details would have run hundreds of dollars. Frank and Bobby were her only remaining family save for a few distant cousins that lived out of state. She had no friends left in the end.
Age and years of institutionalisation had seen to that.
Bobby had seen no reason to publish a death notice. It wasn't a lack of care or love—it was simply the cold hard reality of his mother's circumstances at the end of her life.
Frank rubbed his hands together as he searched for a plausible excuse.
"A guardian angel told me," he said with a coy smile.
Goren snapped.
He took Frank by the front of his frayed shirt and shoved him up against the cabinets.
"Whoa, easy. I didn't mess with your little bird," Frank insisted.
"WHAT?"
"C'mon, Bobby! Ease up!"
Goren was shattered. It wasn't bad enough that he treated Eames the way he did. He was the reason she'd been targeted by Jo Gage in the first place. Her entire career had stalled out thanks to Goren.
Now she had to deal with Frank panhandling outside of 1PP.
Bobby released his grip on the front of Frank's shirt. He moved away, pacing in the shadows as he puffed away at another cigarette.
"She didn't give me any money—and I didn't ask," Frank said.
"That's not the point," Bobby said, exasperated.
He stopped and grimaced.
"She's just… don't talk to her. Don't go near her. Don't ever put her in the middle of THIS!" Goren shouted as he thrust his arm and pointed between the two of them.
Bobby threw up his hands, resigned that his brother had bested him again. If Eames hadn't sworn him off for good before, she was certain to cut ties now.
Well done, Frank. You succeeded where I've been failing for years. Bobby thought bitterly.
He slumped down at the table in the main room and stared at the wall. Goren gave Frank the silent treatment in the hope that his brother would take the hint and go.
But Frank was on a mission.
"Bobby, I'm here. I want to be here for you. I'm sorry I wasn't before," Frank said as he came around the counter to the table.
Suddenly, Frank froze. Before Bobby could stop him, Frank reached for a photograph on the table.
"Uncle Mark?" Frank asked.
Goren roughly snatched it out of his brother's hands.
"What are you doing with a photo of Uncle Mark? Was it in ma's stuff?" Frank pressed.
He slipped into the seat across from his brother and helped himself to one of Bobby's cigarettes.
"I always wondered what happened to him," Frank said. "He was there a lot, especially when we had that place out in Rockaways across the water."
The Goren family had lived in Canarsie, Brooklyn all their lives—except for a few months one summer when they stayed at a rental house on the west side of the Rockaway peninsula.
"Then he stopped coming around. Ma got real sad after that, remember? I think she liked him, yanno? Since helped out when dad was running around," Frank went on.
The thought made Bobby's stomach sick.
"I always wondered what happened to him," Frank said.
Frank glanced up at his brother. He cocked his head to the side, wordlessly asking for an explanation.
"He never thought much of me. But he loved you," Frank said.
"Don't," Goren warned.
"No, I mean it. He used to take you all sorts of places. The beach. The park. He bought you that baseball mitt—"
"Stop."
"He was always dropping by. Showing you how to swing a hammer and—"
"SHUT UP!" Goren shouted.
In one swift move, he leapt up from the table and kicked a chair over. It clattered as it hit the floor. A moment later, there was shouting from the flat below.
"Jeez, Bobby. Take it easy. Relax," Frank urged.
"Relax? You… you think I need to 'take it easy?' What? Like you, Frank? I got cash in my wallet. Should we go find your dealer? Is that enough for us to get high tonight?" Bobby roared as threw the cash at Frank. "A new bonding experience as brothers?"
Goren stormed down the corridor of his flat away from Frank.
A moment later, a plate came whizzing out of the darkness. It hit the far wall and shattered. The plate was followed by a porcelain figurine.
Bobby reappeared with a banker's box in hand.
"You want ma's things? This is what she left, Frank! This is what she fucking left!"
Frank crouched low as Bobby pummelled him with knickknacks and what little of the China remained.
When the box was gone, Bobby reached for one of his mother's paintings. He brought the canvas down on the back of one of the dining chairs.
Frank blinked in stunned silence.
He glanced up at his brother. This time, there was no trace of Frank's charm. He made no attempt to deflect through humour.
No, Frank stared at him as if Bobby was a monster.
Frank put his hand up. He gently rose from his chair and spoke in a low, calm voice.
"Alright, easy Bobby. Can I call someone? You… you want me to call Eames?" Frank offered.
There was no teasing in this—it was a genuine request.
"Get out," Bobby said.
His voice was much calmer, but his chest heaved.
The eye of the storm.
"Bobby, I—"
"Get out," Goren said.
He stepped around the table, closing in on Frank. In another time, another place they might have been schoolboys chasing each other around the table.
Frank dodged to avoid his brother's wrath. He made a beeline for the door—not even stopping to bid Bobby farewell.
It wasn't fast enough for Goren.
"GET OUT!" he hollered, chucking another box of his mother's junk.
Frank closed the door just in time.
As soon as the door slammed shut, Bobby surveyed the damage. His mother's painting was smashed. Her favourite teacup was unsalvageable.
The floor was littered with shattered glass, broken knickknacks, and shards from the porcelain figurines Frances Goren treasured.
And there atop the table sat open a copy of Mark Ford Brady's file—his mugshot staring back at Goren as if to say, 'well done.'
A chip off the old block.
Bobby collapsed against the wall and slid down to the floor. He pulled his knees close and rested his chin on the heel of his palm.
One thought came clearly to the front of his mind. He reasoned it was a good thing that Frank showed up. Otherwise, Bobby might have broken down and called Eames.
There was no way he could call her now.
I am a monster.
February and March were a difficult time of year for Alex Eames—especially the weeks between 25 February and Saint Patrick's Day.
The city was stuck between winter and spring. The weather could never make up its mind. All anyone at NYPD could talk about was Saint Patrick's Day.
Eames's family was no different—her father took it as a personal insult that Alex wouldn't join the rest of the family that day. Her younger brother insisted that he'd found her a 'perfect' guy that she just had to meet.
It was suffocating.
So, consumed with her own life, Eames didn't put much thought into Robert Goren outside of the wee small hours of the morning.
She missed the sound of his voice, the way he drummed on his leather binder when driving to a scene. She hated that she couldn't glance up from her desk to swap theories or smart remarks. She missed sneaking the last crispy duck roll and Goren's stupid dance in interrogation.
Most of all, Eames was afraid that she would never get to have any of those things again. Even if Bobby came back, Eames knew that things would be different between them.
The jury was still out on whether Goren would return at all. With each passing day, his silence only seemed to confirm her worst fears.
Then, at the start of March, Ross informed Eames that Goren had requested to tap into his PTO. His bereavement leave was due to end in a week and Goren had asked for two more weeks out of his personal time.
"He called you?" Eames asked.
"Yeah. I just got off the phone with him," Ross answered.
Nice. Real nice.
Just fucking peachy.
He could call Ross, but not her.
Alex got the hint.
"I'm going to assign Daniels to step in for a while," Ross said.
"Until Goren comes back," Eames said.
Her voice didn't make clear if that was a demand or a question.
"He's good. From the drug task force out of Brooklyn," Ross said, sidestepping the matter altogether.
"Until Goren comes back, right?" Eames pressed.
Captain Ross sighed. He averted his eyes.
"Detective, I—"
Eames got up from her desk.
"It's fine. I can read the writing on the wall, Captain," she said before walking off.
Eames was grateful that she'd gone in early that morning. She was able to sneak out of Major Case and down to the parking garage in the basement.
Once safe inside her car, Eames shrunk down into the seat and dialled Goren's number.
It rang and rang.
And rang.
"Pick up. Pick up. Pick up," Eames muttered.
You've reached Detective Robert Goren, NYPD Major Case. Please leave a message.
"Don't delete this. Just… just listen," Eames began.
"I've been assigned a temporary partner."
Goren wasn't exactly stunned by that news. It was a long time coming.
"There's politics at play here. I get the distinct impression that you're not coming back."
Eames took a deep breath.
"And if you're not coming back––I get it."
It was evident that such a thought distressed her—even if she played it off as routine.
"But if you're not planning to leave Major Case, then you should know that the Chief of D's was in to speak with Ross this morning," Eames message went on. "It's the second time in two days."
She paused.
"I don't need your skills to piece together what went down behind the glass," Eames said.
The Chief of D's was not a fan of Goren. He'd been on Ross's tail (and Deakins before him) to drop Goren from Major Case. Goren was unpredictable and unstable, a professional pain in the arse.
A liability.
"I understand if you aren't coming back. Just… just please tell me. Because if you're not coming back—"
Bobby could tell from the tone of Eames's voice that she was hurt—and trying desperately to keep a stiff upper lip.
"I don't know if I want to do this job if I'm not doing it with you."
There. It was all out in the open now.
It wasn't quite the same as uttering those three words weeks earlier—but it wasn't exactly different.
The sentiment was the same. And it certainly didn't mean any less.
Bobby heard Eames clear her throat before she continued. When she spoke again, she was back to her typical professional demeanour.
"Anyway, I just thought you should know."
Goren shut his phone. He sat back, resting his phone against his chin as he mulled over the message.
Goren had been shocked that Ross made no attempt to convince him to take more time off. In fact, Ross was keen for Goren to return. In spite of their initial tension, Goren had come around. Ross was okay.
But he was also getting a lot of pressure from above.
Detective Goren produced astounding results. His investigative prowess was unparalleled.
And costly.
Major Case hadn't made any friends at City Hall. Goren's reputation to pursue the truth regardless of perception, politics, or power structures had put a target on the back of anyone associated with him.
There was a growing feeling among the brass that Major Case would be better served by cutting ties with its infamous detective.
Bobby listened to Eames's message two more times. He tried to convince himself that he was working up the nerve to get out of his depressive funk.
Truthfully, he just missed the sound of her voice.
The next day, Goren woke up feeling a renewed sense of purpose.
He decided to sort through the remaining unbroken things from his mother. Bobby kept the photographs, her paintings, and some of the little things she'd made or kept over the years.
There wasn't much in the way of family 'heirlooms.' They weren't worth anything—a crocheted throw, an ashtray from Shenandoah National Park (the only true family holiday they ever took), and her sewing kit tucked safely in a biscuit tin.
That was all Bobby had left of his mother.
While the items were not valuable in a traditional sense, Bobby treasured them.
He spent the whole day sorting through everything.
Bobby left his flat for the first time in ages. He finally took down the boxes of broken glass and ripped canvas from his run-in with Frank.
By midnight, his flat was clean and so was Bobby.
After a long shower to wash away the grime, Goren studied his reflection in the mirror. Bobby was greyer than could previously recall.
He would turn forty-six in a few months. Somehow, Bobby felt like he had aged more in the last year than he had in the previous ten.
Eames would probably have a smart remark about that—right before reminding him that the smokes and whisky were the culprit.
Bobby contributed it to stress. His mother's decline and the increasing demand of caring for her near the end had drained years from his life.
He'd lost his mother, discovered his murderous father, was estranged from his mentor, faced increased scrutiny over his work, was the subject of an internal smear campaign for going after Judge Garrett—all in short succession.
Then there was Eames.
Bobby was quite certain he could pinpoint the moment the salt and pepper at his temples had given way to the grey and that it was the twenty-four hours of Eames's abduction at the hands of Jo Gage.
Eames had survived. She was coping.
As he reached for his razor, Bobby was certain that Eames would survive this too.
He'd grown to like his beard but opted to shave it off lest he look a little too like a dotty professor.
And if Goren was going to return to Major Case, he needed to be sure that he didn't give the brass any additional ammunition. They would already be up in arms that wanted to return.
Goren knew they were hoping he would slip into obscurity, that 1PP was safe from the likes of the brooding Goren stalking its corridors.
Things could never go back to the way they were before.
It wasn't exactly the way Goren wanted to return. At least he would still get to work with Eames doing the job he loved.
Eames would be chilly (and rightfully so)—exactly what Goren wanted.
He'd hoped to create a barrier between them, to give her a chance to escape and get her head above water before it was too late for her.
For the best.
As he lathered on his shaving cream, Goren tried to convince himself that this was a good thing. Only he couldn't ignore the little voice in the back of his mind.
Then why does it feel so awful?
2 March | 1:40 a.m. | E 86th Street | Queens
"There. That one. His first ballgame," said Detective Patrick Copa, gushing about his son.
He held his mobile out so his partner could get a look.
"Not bad at all," replied his partner, Detective Kevin Quinn.
His own son was already nine—going on ten. It was a painful reminder that Quinn was growing older. He sighed as he flipped through the photos from his partner's recent day off with his boy.
"There's days I wish I could just smush Joey back down that age. Forbid him to grow up," Quinn remarked wistfully.
Copa chuckled.
"You laugh now," Quinn teased. "But you blink, and then one day, all of sudden, dad isn't the greatest thing in the world anymore and you wonder when your little tyke turned into this young man."
Quinn just shook his head.
"And they're so damn moody," he quipped.
The two partners were assigned on a protective detail guarding a witness for an upcoming trial. It meant long, overnight shifts away from home. They had another four hours together before their relief arrived.
Copa's mobile pinged. Quinn shot him a knowing look.
"Call in a bathroom break for me, eh?" Copa asked.
Quinn did not hide his displeasure.
"Look, I know you're my partner and it's none of my business but—"
"Ten minutes," Copa interjected. "Ten minutes. That's all. I'm not sleeping with her."
"That's not the point," Quinn replied.
Copa gave his partner a look.
"Like your marriage is perfect?" Copa asked.
"Not at all," Quinn said without missing a beat. "But the only women I text back and forth with at this time of night are coworkers or my wife."
Quinn didn't fault Copa—and Copa knew as much. His partner was merely trying to make sure that Copa didn't stray from the path. Temptation was abundant in their line of work. The long, overnight hours and stress made it that much harder to resist.
Quinn wasn't naive. He knew there were colleagues on the take. Some handled it by taking out their stress and fear by roughing up suspects or witnesses. There were substances to take off the edge. Others, like Copa, looked for a little thrill on the side.
"What are you trying to say?" Copa asked.
He wasn't angry. Rather, Copa was concerned that he'd disappointed Quinn. They were partners.
Brothers.
Copa didn't want to risk that bond.
"What you do is your business. But maybe ask yourself if it's worth it?" Quinn suggested. "Every single day when I leave, I kiss Theresa like it might be the last time. And I don't ever want to do anything to make her think she's not enough."
Except the job. Quinn mused.
Theresa understood. She was a nurse. She knew first-hand that Quinn's long, unpredictable hours and the danger that came with them were all par for the course as the wife of a cop.
"Are we gonna be okay?" Copa asked.
"Yeah," Quinn replied. "You're my partner. Just be careful."
Copa chuckled.
"Back at ya," Copa joked. "Mind yourself sitting here."
Quinn radioed in Copa's 'bathroom' break. He didn't begrudge his partner. In fact, Quinn thought of Copa like a younger brother. Kevin Quinn was fiercely protective of his partner. He didn't want to see anything happen to him—whether it be on the job or at home.
Quinn didn't like to lecture, nor were his warnings ever presented as such. Rather, he hoped a gentle reminder now and again would help Copa figure things out before it was too late for his marriage.
Copa was a good man.
But there were days Quinn missed his old partner.
Quinn flipped down the sun visor above the dash. He smiled at the picture he kept there. It was a reminder of better days and of the reasons that Kevin Quinn stayed on the straight and narrow.
Joe Dutton was a good man, his North Star.
They had been as close as close could be. Quinn was the best man at Joe's wedding. Joe was there for Quinn too.
Hell, Quinn named his son after Joe.
It would have been so easy for Kevin Quinn to slip into the bottle or to grow bitter and disillusioned after Joe's murder.
Instead, Quinn tried to carry on Joe's legacy by keeping himself clean. He followed the ethical standards of his job to the letter, treated suspects and witnesses with fairness and respect, and always sought to do better.
Quinn sighed as he studied the old photograph. It was from a trip ten years earlier when Quinn, Theresa, Dutton, and Eames had driven up to Block Island for a weekend at the beach.
Joe's last summer.
Quinn was so caught up in the memory of that summer that he didn't notice the shadow next to the window.
Goren's phone rang at 1:57.
He was still up. His mind had a tendency to run overnight.
The call was from Captain Ross.
Bobby ignored it.
Eames tried next.
Goren ignored that call too. He wasn't ready to face her. He would have to eventually, but he wasn't ready to yet. Things were still too raw. Goren firmly believed that whatever latest emergency had cropped up at 1PP was not the best timing for his reintroduction at work.
Goren put his mobile on the counter and decided to pour himself a drink.
Then Eames rang back.
This time, Goren's loneliness and curiosity got the better of him. He couldn't sit in the darkness anymore.
He slammed his drink, took a breath to steady his nerves, and flipped open his mobile.
Eames was rattled. Goren could tell just by the sound of her voice. The fact that there was no snarky remark only confirmed that suspicion. Eames wasted no time in asking Goren to come in.
"I'm sorry," she apologised. "I know that you're on leave. It's late. I'm the last person you want to hear from—"
"No. No, you were right to call," Bobby assured her. "I'll meet you there."