Author's Note: Thank you—you lot are simply the best!
This is a long chapter. I just couldn't bring myself to cut it further.
I've taken some liberties with the size of Plattsburgh, NY. For the sake of convenience, I've portrayed it as significantly smaller than it really is.
The statistic cited re: remarriage is real and is taken from research done by the Canadian General Social Survey.
One of Eames's lines in this is lifted from Doctor Who. It's such a hauntingly beautiful phrase that I felt really captured their relationship.
Onward we go…
Content Warnings
Discussion of: Sexual assault, trauma, pregnancy, abortion, miscarriage/loss, and violence. Brief mention of September 11.
Scenes containing: Substance use, grief/loss, sex (non-explicit)
Detective Goren was in Captain Ross's office along with the Chief of Detectives himself, Moran.
Things were not going well.
"Since when is a cop not a reliable witness?" Moran fumed.
"When he can't see clearly," Goren answered. "His symptoms are an early sign of macular degeneration and—"
"I wasn't addressing you, Detective," Moran spat.
Goren had anticipated this pushback. He would have given anything to be wrong for a change.
"What's your problem, Goren? You've been shooting down this case against Sang since we started," Moran asked.
Ross knew it was time to step in.
"Chief, the ID is no good. And there is no evidence to link Sang to the scene," Ross pointed out.
Ross pleaded for Moran to see reason.
"Look, I know that you're getting a lot of pressure." Ross could empathise. The brass wanted to bring in Quinn's killer and fast. "There is no evidence that links Sang to the crime scene. The DA won't touch this."
Moran's face soured as he glared up at Goren.
"I only want to find the person responsible," Goren said.
Moran scowled. He turned and stepped toward Goren as if Bobby would somehow be intimidated by the stars on his shoulders.
Goren didn't flinch.
"You sure have a funny way of showing it," Moran said.
"Detective Goren is only doing his job," Ross said.
Moran couldn't argue with that—even though he desperately wanted to. Defeated, Moran made for the door.
He turned back just before leaving to address Goren.
"Funeral's tomorrow," he announced. "Good luck explaining this to Theresa Quinn."
"Why did you do it?" Alex asked.
She wasn't angry—she was hurt.
Theresa Quinn closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
"Allie, I never meant for—"
Before she could apologise and explain, Eames's mobile went off. It was a text message from Goren.
Call ASAP.
"I'm sorry, I have to take this," Eames said.
She stepped through the sliding glass door out to the back deck of the Quinn home and flipped open her mobile to ring her partner back. Goren answered on the first ring, and they wasted no time on pleasantries.
"What happened?" Eames asked.
"Copa's ID is no good. We just cut Sang loose," Goren said.
Eames did not react. She kept her expression perfectly neutral—a sign in and of itself that something was wrong.
Theresa Quinn stood on the opposite side of the glass. She waited, watching every microexpression for any news about the case.
"The Chief of D's is on his way over now to break the news. I just thought… well, it might be better coming from you," Bobby said.
She glanced back in the kitchen at Theresa. There was no easy way to break it.
"Understood," Eames replied in a tight voice.
When Eames stepped back into the kitchen, Theresa was at the sink.
"You have something bad to tell me. Something about Kevin's case," she said knowingly.
Theresa could sense it. She'd been married to a cop long enough to know. Eames was about to speak when Theresa turned and put up her hand to stop Alex.
"I know it's gonna be bad news. So, before you tell me whatever it is, let me apologise. Let me… let me say this," Theresa prefaced.
It was a long overdue conversation.
"If this about what you said to Joe's mother at the wake—I'm not mad," Eames assured her. "It was a long time ago. You didn't give her any ammunition."
That woman didn't need any help to think the worst of Alex Eames.
"Oh, God. I still feel terrible," Theresa said, cringing at the memory.
Suddenly, her lip began to quiver.
"But that's not what I have to say," Theresa said as a fresh batch of tears emerged.
Theresa wiped her face on the back of her sleeve. She took a shaky breath to compose herself before continuing.
"It's alright," Alex said. "We don't have to do this now. Okay?"
"No, no. I need to do this."
Theresa ran a trembling hand back through her hair.
"I have to. It's been too long. And it should have been Kev. It was supposed to be Kev. Now it's caught up to him after all these years," Theresa said, rambling wildly.
She was tempted—very tempted—to accept Eames's offer to let the topic go. It would be so easy. Theresa wanted to lose her nerve, to tell herself that now was not the time.
Only she couldn't.
Theresa gripped Eames's hand.
"That night. The night Joe was shot. It should have been Kevin. And it is all my fault," Theresa said.
Alex was stunned. She didn't understand.
"I… I don't follow."
"Kevin should have been the one inside. It was supposed to be Kevin," Theresa said.
She was speaking of Kevin and Joe's final assignment. They were working undercover in Narcotics. It was going to be Kevin and Joe's last case together before Joe transferred out to the SCUBA team on the NYPD Harbour Unit.
That last case was meant to be a big drug bust. No one knew it would end with a murder investigation.
Joe and Quinn had posed as representatives for a gang in Boston. They set everything up to 'purchase' a large shipment of cocaine from a local distributer, Alfred Minaya.
"It should have been Kev," Theresa echoed.
"You can't know that," Alex said as she squeezed Theresa's hand.
Theresa shook her head back and forth.
"No, no. It's my fault," she insisted.
"Ray Delgado killed my husband," Eames said. "It was a senseless act of violence and…"
Alex trailed off.
Even a decade on, there were no words to rationalise it or to offer comfort.
"But I do," Theresa sniffled. "Joe came over that night before their shift for dinner. You were working."
Alex recalled that night with perfect clarity. The two couples usually ate together once a week and alternated hosting duties.
Out of nowhere, little Joey Quinn came rushing into the kitchen to grab a juicebox.
"Mum, can I go to Ethan's tonight?" Joey asked.
"Not tonight, honey. I'll start supper soon, okay?" Theresa said.
Juicebox in hand, Joey rushed back up the stairs. Theresa's eyes followed as her son raced from the room.
"I had a bad feeling that night. I just… I couldn't shake it," Theresa said.
From their place in the kitchen, Alex and Theresa could hear as little Joey thundered up the stairs to his room.
"I asked Joe to do it. For him," Theresa said, glancing overhead to the ceiling where her son was one floor above playing video games.
"What are you saying?" Eames asked.
Theresa cupped her hand over her mouth as she searched for the right words.
"Kevin was supposed to be inside at the buy. But they switched places," Theresa said.
This wasn't news to Alex. She had long wondered why Joe was inside that night. Joe was the more technically savvy of the two and he had more operational command experience. Kevin was the talker.
"They switched because I asked him to," Theresa confessed. "I pulled Joe aside that night and I asked him to change places with Kevin."
Theresa struggled to keep her voice even.
"I overheard Kev and Joe talking before we ate. They were worried that Minaya was suspicious, that he'd made them for cops. And I just… I had a bad feeling that something was going to happen."
It was an unnatural feeling. Throughout the course of her marriage, Theresa had been gripped by that same fear countless times. The majority of the time it was just that—fear.
Except that night.
"So, I stopped Joe before they left and I… I asked him to switch places because I didn't want my son to grow up without a father," Theresa concluded, her voice growing softer with each word. By the end, she was barely audible.
Alex was at a loss for words.
"He did it for me. For my baby. He didn't even hesitate," Theresa added, thumbing away tears.
Of course. That was Joe.
"I didn't know that you were pregnant too. I never would have asked," Theresa said.
Alex and Joe had only found out the week prior. They'd told no one. Theresa had been thirty-six weeks along with her son at that time—just about ready to pop.
Joe had waved off Theresa's fears.
If it gives you peace of mind, consider it done. He'd said with a wink.
Joe would have given a stranger the shirt off his back. He'd have done anything for Kevin and Theresa. Joe would have laid down his life for Kevin.
He did. Alex reminded herself.
"It's why we named our son after him. It's why I couldn't be around you, why everything cooled after I learned you were pregnant," Theresa went on.
Following Joe's death, Alex had needed to speak with someone. She never anticipated that leaning on her best friend would also lead to the end of that relationship.
Kevin's explanation echoed in Eames's mind.
It's just painful for her.
"And then when you miscarried, I just couldn't shake knowing that I had ruined your life. That my selfishness took everything from you," Theresa sobbed.
Alex stood motionless.
She was gutted.
She visibly turned her head as if to banish away a bad thought. She couldn't allow herself to begin exploring the knot of emotion and memory that threatened to overwhelm her.
The life she might have shared with Joe had things been different, the pregnancy that may have thrived had Alex not been consumed by grief and stress, the father Joe would have been had he been given the chance.
There was anger.
So much anger.
Joe knew.
He knew about the danger (enough that both Joe and Quinn were concerned their cover might have been blown). Joe knew Alex was expecting, that they had their whole lives ahead of them and that he wasn't just living for himself anymore—that he had a child on the way and that if anything happened, Alex would be left to raise that child alone.
Joe knew all of that and he still agreed.
Alex was furious.
She was equally distraught, wrecked with grief.
Joe had spent his final moments alone, bleeding out on the concrete floor of a warehouse knowing that he would never see his wife again and that he would never know his child.
Alex couldn't blame him if those last moments were confusing and bitter.
It was an absurd, callous thing to die over drug bust. Particularly, when he wasn't meant to be there in the first place.
Yet, she couldn't stay mad at Joe. That's just who Joe was. And, in no small way, Alex was proud of him.
"I wish I could stay mad at him," Alex whispered aloud.
Oh, how she wanted to hang onto that anger. It was easier than accepting that the world was cold, senseless place—easier than thinking about the fact that Alex spent her nights lying alone in bed while Joe was alone in his grave.
Theresa pulled Alex into a tight embrace.
"God, they were a pair, weren't they?" she remarked.
In spite of the tears, Alex laughed too.
"I'm so sorry," Theresa apologised.
"You didn't know. You couldn't know," Alex assured her.
"I took everything from you," Theresa said. "Kevin was so angry when I told him about my request. That's why he kept in touch. He couldn't live with the guilt knowing Joe ate a bullet meant for him."
Eames shushed her.
"It's no one's fault except for the man that pulled that trigger," she said.
She had cling to that. She couldn't allow herself to explore any other possibilities. Joe's case was a closed chapter.
Or so she thought.
"What was the call about?" Theresa asked. "It was the case, wasn't it?"
She broke their embrace to fetch a tissue for Alex.
"Thanks," Eames said as she wiped her eyes.
Theresa moved back to the sink to start dinner.
"Uh… that was my partner. The suspect that was arrested earlier, he's not the guy," Alex shared.
There was an audible 'clang' as Theresa Quinn dropped a pan in the sink.
"I'm sorry," Alex apologised.
Theresa froze.
"We'll find who did this," Eames vowed.
"How can they do that? How… how can they do that?" Theresa wailed.
Just like that, she was sobbing uncontrollably. Detective Copa and the Chief of D's had already called to assure the Quinn family that the case was open and shut.
"He promised. They promised. What the hell happened?" Theresa demanded. "How can they just let that bastard get off?"
Alex reached for Theresa's hands.
"We will find who did this," she reiterated.
Theresa nodded glumly.
"Then I guess I better let you get back to work," Theresa said.
It rained the morning of Kevin Quinn's funeral. It was the kind of cold, biting rain that fell in early March—wetting what remained of the snow and turning everything into muck.
The sun came up, but the skies remained grey.
Goren and Eames arrived early. Their investigation into Quinn's murder was back to square one. If it had been personally motivated, then they had to look into Quinn's life—and that meant starting at the funeral.
Eames parked the SUV across from the church. It was just after 8:00. The funeral wasn't slated to begin until 1:00. But there were four hours of visitation scheduled prior to the start and most of the NYPD was expected to be in attendance.
Goren and Eames wanted to scope out the area before the crowd arrived. They planned to disappear back to the SUV and spend the service in observation of all the activity going in and out.
They both had their own reasons for wanting to remain in the background.
Alex didn't want the attention from old friends. She couldn't bear to smile, nod, and be reminded of Joe by people that had cut her off years earlier. And Goren was persona non grata for releasing Sang.
While Eames paid her respects to the family, Goren poked around for clues from the photographs and mementos that remained of Kevin Quinn's life.
They were splayed out across a number of tables in the front of the church.
Theresa Quinn was one table over with Alex at her side. They paused as Eames picked up an old photo.
"Saint Paddy's Day Parade. '95," she remarked.
"Right after you got married," Theresa recalled. "Remember they were singing' uh…"
"Wild Rover," Alex finished for her.
Theresa chuckled. Alex grinned too.
"It was the only song Joe knew," she recalled fondly.
"Kevin was playin' the pipes. He loved the parade because… because he was always playin' at funerals."
It was too much. A fresh wave of tears hit. Eames pulled Theresa into a warm embrace.
"I wish I had the words. I wish I could make this better," Alex said.
Theresa stepped back. After drying her eyes, she reached for Eames's hand.
"I'm just glad you're here," she said.
Goren didn't mean to eavesdrop, but he was curious about the nature of their conversation. Sang didn't kill Kevin Quinn, but someone did. There had to be a reason—and Goren was ready to turn Quinn's life inside out to find it.
Delicately.
"Is there anything I can do?" Eames asked.
"Actually, I wanted to ask you something," Theresa said.
She reached into her purse and pulled out something small, small enough that she had to hold it up for Alex to see.
"I don't know what to do with it," Theresa confessed. "Do I put it in the coffin with him? Do I save it? Give it to Joey?"
Goren snuck a quick glance and realised they were talking about Kevin Quinn's wedding ring.
"I'm worried about him. Being alone down there in the ground without it. But… I can't bear to part with it. It feels like a part of him, a part of him that I want to keep with me," Theresa explained. "And what if Joey wants it someday?"
It wasn't like she would have a way to get it back. In truth, Theresa felt pressured.
"I just can't decide. I wish I had more time," she said.
She was desperate for guidance.
"What did you do with Joe's ring?" Theresa asked.
Eames reached for her necklace.
Theresa gasped, touched by the idea.
Goren heard that gasp and couldn't help himself. He turned to stare as Eames explained that she'd had both their rings melted down and refashioned into the cross necklace that she never took off.
Theresa caught Goren staring and glowered. She leaned in close to whisper to Alex.
"Is it true your partner made them release that bastard?" Theresa asked.
Eames froze.
"He killed Kev," Theresa insisted.
"He didn't," Eames replied softly.
Theresa frowned.
"Detective Copa told me he killed Kev. He ID'd him. And because of your partner, he's now walking free."
Out of the corner of her eye, Eames watched as Bobby made himself scarce. He didn't want to agitate Quinn's family.
"He was only doing his job," Eames said.
"That Sang was a bad man," Theresa pressed.
"Maybe. But he didn't shoot Kevin," Eames said.
Outside, Detective Goren made his way down the stone steps to the pavement. Kevin Quinn's son, Joey, zipped by on his RipStik-style skateboard.
He felt bad for leaving Eames in there alone. She could handle herself and Goren did not wish to cause a scene. Captain Ross had advised Goren to keep a distance. The Quinn family were furious about Sang's release. Detective Copa and Chief Moran had only fanned the flame—placing blame solely on Goren.
Goren was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn't see Quinn's son ride back past him.
"Watch it!" Joey Quinn huffed as he jumped off his board.
Goren stepped back to give him room to pass.
"That looks pretty tricky."
"Kinda," the boy replied.
"How does it work?" Goren asked.
There was no way he would ever get on one. But Goren understood that kids liked to talk about their hobbies and interests. It was a great way to get them to open up. He was a natural.
"You shift your weight like this," the boy said, demonstrating. "And then to turn, you move your back foot here."
"Nice," Goren said.
He applauded politely as the boy whizzed past again to show off his skills.
"Did you know my dad?" the boy asked.
"I didn't. But a friend told me that he was a good man," Goren answered honestly.
Now that the door was open, Goren decided to gently tread through the door.
"Can I ask you a question, Joey? Is there anybody that might have wanted to hurt your dad?"
Joey Quinn shrugged.
"I dunno. He was a cop. He got shot. It happens," Quinn said.
"Well, it's my job to make sure we catch whoever did it. And to try and stop them before they can hurt anyone else," Goren explained.
Joey Quinn seemed unimpressed.
"You guys aren't very good at it," he said.
Goren wasn't about to try and explain the intricacies of policing to a nine-year old child.
"My dad got shot. That cop got shot last year. I was named after a cop that got shot too," Joey went.
"Right. Detective Joe Dutton," Goren said.
Joey Quinn turned sharply. He hopped off his board and stared up at Bobby.
"Did you know him?" Joey asked.
"No."
Unfazed, Joey resumed skating around on the pavement in front of the church.
"Mum doesn't like to talk about him. But dad told me he was a good cop too," Joey said. "I was supposed to be named after my grandpa. But then I was born the day after he died, so my dad named me after his partner."
Before Goren could ask, Joey was off to the next topic.
"Did you hear about that cop that let my dad's killer go?" Joey asked.
"We'll find the right guy," Goren assured him.
"The Chief of D's told my mum that guy is a real whack job. Totally mental," Joey went on.
A gut-punch from a nine-year-old.
Goren's mental health was a sore subject—especially in the wake of his paternity bombshell from Mark Ford Brady.
Bobby wanted to lash out, to scream that he wasn't deranged. Instead, he remained stiff.
"We'll find him," Goren reiterated.
Their SUV was parked across from the church. It gave them a clear view to watch everyone coming and going from the funeral. Cars were starting to arrive, and Goren thought it would be best to make himself scarce.
Goren reached for the passenger door only to find himself shoved face-first against the side of the vehicle.
"You have the nerve to show your face here?"
Goren didn't have to look to recognise Copa's voice.
Goren had to curb the instinct to make a smart remark.
"My partner and your partner were close," Goren said, hoping to diffuse the situation.
Copa released him. Goren turned and adjusted the collar of his dress uniform. He was glad he'd chosen to remain diplomatic as Copa did not come alone.
Goren quickly surveyed the small crowd of officers that had surrounded the scene. It was obvious they had no issue with Copa's aggression. Judging by their age, insignia, and awards, these men were likely a mix of current and former colleagues of Quinn's.
And Joe. Bobby realised.
"I'm on a desk pending medical. Maybe looking at forced retirement," Copa said.
"Not to mention that cop killer that's out on the streets," one of the men said.
A murmur of sarcastic approval went around the circle.
"Well done, detective," Copa snarled.
"All we want to do is find Quinn's killer," Goren said.
He was hoping to smooth things over, to remind this mob of grieving colleagues that they were on the same team.
"We have an obligation to seek justice—not revenge," Goren said.
Copa laughed.
"Revenge? You hear that, boys?" Copa asked.
He cracked his knuckles. One of the other men glanced around to ensure the street was clear.
"I think we'd all like a little revenge on behalf of Kevin Quinn," Copa said.
"Hey!"
Eames's voice cut through the crowd like a bucket of ice water.
Goren had been braced for a beatdown when Eames came rushing down the stone steps across the street. Bobby was relieved to see his saving grace rush across, undaunted by the crowd of burly policemen itching for a fight.
Alex eyed them with a disapproving glare.
She nodded to each of the men, addressing them all by name.
"For a minute there I thought you were about to jump my partner. But, of course, I know men like you would never resort to conduct so unbecoming an officer," Eames said, chastising the group.
She had a way of reducing even the toughest of cops to trembling in their boots.
"Especially on a day like today," she added.
Then Alex flashed them all a knowing smile.
"Gentlemen," she said, gesturing toward the church.
The mob dispersed. Alex didn't know or particularly care whether it was because she intervened or simply out of respect for Kevin Quinn's widow—either way, the fight had been averted.
For now.
"What did you say to set them off?" she asked.
Goren baulked.
"What makes you think I said anything?"
Goren sat in the driver's seat for a change. They weren't planning to drive anywhere, and Eames was grateful to keep her eyes on the church doors.
More people started to arrive. It was only 9:15 and there was already a line out of the door.
"Quinn was a good guy. Had a lot of friends," Goren said as he observed the parade of people coming in and out of the church.
"Yeah."
It was the only thing Eames had said since they climbed in the car.
"Things seem to have thawed a little between you and Theresa Quinn," Goren observed.
Eames didn't answer. Goren took it as an invitation to continue.
"Did she have any idea of who might have wanted to hurt Kevin? Or Copa for that matter?"
"No," Eames replied.
She did not elaborate.
"It's uh… it's good she has you. Seeing as how you've, well—"
Goren fumbled for his words. There was no polite way to put it.
"I didn't know it was your anniversary," Bobby confessed.
He couldn't say that he was sorry for cutting her out or blame the grief. Nor could he say it wasn't intended—Bobby wanted to isolate himself, to cut all ties with Alex outside of their professional relationship.
"I didn't know that—"
"Can we not talk about it?" Eames asked.
She tensed as Bobby leaned in over the centre console. He was close.
Too close.
"Alex, I meant what I said that night."
She turned and stared hard at her partner.
"So did I," she said simply.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Alex gave Bobby space to speak his mind, to open up about what was going on inside of that big brain of his. She knew his heart was equally as big and just as complicated.
He didn't utter a peep.
And when he remained silent, Alex nodded bitterly. She threw up her hands and turned her attention back to watching the queue that had formed outside the church. She let out a deep, exasperated sigh.
"I meant it, Bobby. But I don't know what I was thinking," she remarked, resigned to the frustrating jumble of confusion and pain that was her relationship with Robert Goren.
They were more than partners.
They weren't lovers—there was too much emotional investment to write off what they shared as merely sexual.
But what did they have?
Alex wanted to believe it was something more, something deeper. But when she stripped away the job, when Detectives Eames and Goren took off their shields, and examined what they were left with, it wasn't much.
Trauma.
Hormones.
Loneliness.
A mutual belief that the world was a cruel place full of liars and a shared sense that maybe—just maybe—it could be a little less awful together.
Alex didn't have much faith that either of them could ever find that with someone else.
They were both too damaged.
Alex didn't really date—not seriously, anyway. She couldn't get past her own trauma. She didn't want questions about Joe (or Jo). The hardest part was that Eames always noticed minor things, little character flaws, which drew into question the motive of whichever man caught her eye.
Was he really divorced?
Did he keep checking the sports scores on the television behind her at the pub because he was a diehard fan or because he had a gambling problem?
Was the handcuffs line really a joke?
Yes, it was difficult for Alex to trust anyone—and she wasn't alone.
Bobby could count on one hand the people he really, truly trusted in the world. Eames was first and foremost on that list.
In fact, the list started and ended with her name.
He spent his entire life trying to be a better man than his father. The man Bobby should have been able to look up to was nothing but a liar. He lied about women, about money, about his whereabouts when he disappeared for days on end.
William Goren was an awful man. He'd shown Bobby exactly the type of man that he didn't want to be.
And Robert Goren had devoted himself to his studies. He guarded himself. Bobby poured himself into the pursuit of being anything but William Goren's son.
He had no inkling that his real father was worse.
Bobby knew that there was no serial killer gene. Violent offenders were the result of a complex mix of factors.
He also knew that the genetic, environmental, and psychological predispositions to becoming a violent perpetrator were all within him—along with the knowledge and means to be incredibly dangerous and meticulously skilled.
The very thought horrified him.
Bobby had to keep himself isolated. And, in some ways, he was grateful for that. Because deep down, Bobby knew that his sullen attitude and brooding nature were no different than William Goren's addictions.
Bobby would never physically run out on someone, but he could emotionally check out for days—weeks even—without a word. It was just as bad.
His stepfather chased skirts.
Bobby chased mysteries.
They were one in the same. Bobby had just chosen a different poison.
"It's too uh… it's too late, isn't it?" Bobby asked.
Alex did not immediately answer.
"That's a loaded question," she said eventually.
Goren shrugged it off.
"Nah, it's… it's fine. I get it," he replied.
Alex opened her mouth to say something, but they were cut off by an urgent call. Eames flipped open her phone. She was desperate for a distraction and Detective Daniels did not disappoint.
"Eames," she answered.
Goren watched closely as her brow furrowed.
"Hang on. I'm putting you on speaker," Eames said.
"Low-level dealer but the same M.O. as Quinn. Two shots. One right through the eye," Daniels reported. "I thought you would want to know."
"Any ID?" Goren asked.
"We're working on it. No one's talking. CSU took prints. They'll run them through the system," Daniels answered.
"Thanks," Eames said.
She snapped her phone shut and turned to Goren. They stared at one another.
It was likely they would learn more at a fresh crime scene than from scoping out the funeral guests. Truthfully, Alex was relieved for an excuse to pull them away.
Goren was ready to hop out of the driver's seat so Eames could take the lead. His hand hovered near the door frame. Bobby quirked an eyebrow at his partner, wordlessly asking for confirmation.
Eames gestured to the road ahead.
"Let's go."
Bobby pulled away from the curb. He waited until they were a few blocks clear of the church before flipping on the lights.
Eames remained silent even as Goren took the wrong exit. They would have arrived seven minutes sooner had she driven.
The techs were still working to pull an ID on the stiff by the time Goren pulled up to the park off the Bruckner Expressway.
Daniels was on site and a building-by-building canvass was already underway.
"As you know, staffing is limited this morning," Daniels said.
Most of the police in the city were at Quinn's funeral, on guard for the procession, or filling in to cover duties for other officers that were at the service.
Goren and Eames slipped under the crime scene tape and followed Daniels to the scene.
The body of a man somewhere between thirty and forty, lay atop the pavement. It looked as if he dropped right where he'd been hit. There was no sign of any postmortem staging or rage.
"This was a hit," Goren remarked as he surveyed the area. "The shooter just walked up and popped him. No hesitation. No fear."
Eames pulled back the cover to get a look at the deceased.
"We don't have an ID yet. But it's only a matter of time. I'll let them know to call you direct," Daniels said.
"No need," Eames announced.
Goren stopped.
"You know him?"
"Alfred Minaya," Eames announced.
"A frequent flyer when you were in Vice?" Goren inquired.
They weren't very far from Eames's old patrol in Hunt's Point. It wasn't uncommon for them to run into former collars before. They'd been on the force long enough and offenders had a habit of cropping up like bad pennies.
"No. He testified as a witness against the shooter in my husband's murder trial."
Goren visibly cringed.
He turned away and scratched at his chin for a moment, shifting his weight back and forth between his feet as he grappled with this revelation.
Not here. Bobby told himself.
Ignoring the obvious, Goren approached the body to give it a once over. He directed one of the techs to take specific photos of the scene while Eames spoke with Daniels about getting security footage from a service station up the block.
They did not speak to each other until they were finished with the scene and back in the SUV. Eames climbed into the driver's seat and held out her hand, wordlessly asking Goren for the keys.
She wanted to drive. She needed to be in control of something because it felt like everything else in her life had slipped from her grasp.
Goren pulled the keys out of his pocket but did not immediately release them.
"You know that we have to follow where the evidence goes," he said.
"I know."
"We start with victimology and work from there," he went on.
"I know," Eames repeated in a curt voice.
Bobby wasn't trying to patronise her. He was still working through it himself.
"And right now the only thing beside the killer that links Alfred Minaya and Kevin Quinn is Joe Dutton's murder," Bobby said.
Eames angrily snatched the keys dangling from his hand.
"I didn't suddenly forget how to do my job," she snapped.
It was strange for Alex Eames to find herself sitting in the bullpen, waiting on pins and needles as her partner argued with the Captain over the merits of keeping her assigned to the case at hand.
Stranger still was the fact Robert Goren was the one on the opposite side of the glass pleading her case for a change.
"You know that I have to take her off this," Ross said.
"She can separate any personal feelings from the job," Goren insisted.
Ross sighed.
"It's not personal. I have no doubt in Eames's capabilities. It's about perception."
Quinn's murder had already generated a lot of press. The story was bound to explode if the press got word that Quinn's murder was tied to a second murder from a decade earlier.
"You know how volatile these cases are. If they get wind that the lead investigating officer is the widow—"
"But they won't!" Goren countered. "She never took his name. And… and they kept her name out of the press because she was working undercover in Vice at the time."
Joe Dutton's trial received media coverage, but there were no cameras in the courtroom. Eames was masterful at keeping a low profile, allowing Joe's mother to be the face of the family during the trial.
"No one knows that case better than Eames," Goren argued.
It would take someone days, weeks even, to get up to speed and to track down all the details from the original case.
"Eames knows exactly what kind of details are relevant. She knows what information we need," Goren argued.
"What about the lead detective that handled the last case?" Ross asked.
He wasn't just concerned about perception. Ross was worried that Eames was too close.
"He's gone," Goren answered.
"Then get him back. I don't care if I need to issue a travel authorisation to Key West," Ross declared.
Goren shook his head.
"He was in the towers."
Ross closed his eyes. His shoulders slumped.
"She's the best person… the only person who can bring me up to speed. She's exactly who should be on this case," Goren pressed.
Ross's silence was confirmation that Goren's argument was starting to prevail.
Goren decided it was time to drop the last thing left in his arsenal. If the NYPD brass was going to try and paint Goren as a whack job, he figured he might as well lean into it, weaponise it for his own good.
Goren laced up his dance shoes and went to work. He began to pace frantically in front of Ross's desk.
"Most days she's the only thing standing between me and a PR disaster for the department," Goren said, flinging his arms wildly.
He suddenly stopped and spun on his heel.
"Look, you and I both know that I don't handle change well," Goren warned.
Ross put up a hand to stem the tide.
"You can stop pacing," Ross acquiesced. "I'll do what I can to keep the brass off this—but I can't guarantee I won't be overruled the minute they find out."
An understanding passed between them.
"I'll be assigning Daniels to look into Minaya's associates. Logan and Wheeler will interview the family," Ross said.
Ross anticipated Goren's protest and cut him off before he could launch into another monologue.
"Right now, I need to have something to report at the meeting this afternoon with the Chief of D's, something that will keep the brass looking in the other direction while you and your partner sneak around the corner, understand?"
Eames was in the conference room. Goren shut the door quietly. He remained there, leaning against the glass.
"I need to know everything," Goren said softly.
Eames took a deep breath. She kept her attention focused on her fingernails.
"Their detail. Their relationship. That night. The trial," Goren said.
He kept his questions open-ended. He wanted to give Eames the freedom to start where she felt comfortable and go from there.
"The… the shot through the eye. It's a message. It's personal," Goren went on.
Bobby stuffed his hands into his pockets. He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.
"We uh… we don't have to do this here," he suggested. "We could drive around or… or head over to watch the harbour. They opened that new Ethiopian place—"
"It's fine," Eames interrupted softly.
Goren pulled out the metal chair across from Eames. He sat down and unfolded his leather binder. Pen in hand, Goren waited for Eames to take the lead.
She sat back in her chair. She stared, completely expressionless, at the wall.
Goren opened his binder of notes to make himself busy as he waited.
"Ray Delgado was convicted. He's serving life in Dannemora," Eames said.
She was on autopilot.
Goren flipped through his notes until he reached the details on Delgado and the trial.
"What was his motive?" Goren inquired.
Eames shrugged.
"That's the thing, I don't know. Best as they could determine, Delgado made Joe as a cop. I don't know if he panicked or misunderstood Minaya's orders—"
She paused, staring at the corner.
"It was a stupid, senseless killing. It never should have happened."
Delgado had an extensive rap sheet—but no history of violence. His boss, Minaya, was furious over the murder. It brought unnecessary attention to his operation.
"Mmm… that's an uncharacteristic escalation," Goren remarked as he read through the list of Delgado's priors. "An accident?"
"I don't know what to think. And I don't think we'll ever know. Delgado has always maintained his innocence."
Goren stopped writing. He glanced up over his notes.
"He's never—"
"No."
Goren's eyes narrowed. Eames could see the seed of doubt already forming in the recesses of his mind.
"Well, that's… that's unusual. Doesn't that strike you as odd?"
"A convicted criminal professing his innocence?" Eames asked sarcastically.
It was, perhaps, the one constant they could expect on the job.
"Cop killers are revered in prison. They're like the apex predators at the top of the prison pecking order. The… the other prisoners, they treat them like gods. Why would Delgado deny himself that?" Goren pondered aloud.
It just didn't add up.
"And Minaya cooperated?" Goren pressed.
"Yeah."
Goren's brow wrinkled. He cocked his head to the side as he studied the list of evidence. Eames eyed him sceptically. She could practically hear the wheels in his mind spinning.
"The murder weapon was never recovered," Goren read on. "Delgado was convicted based on Quinn and Minaya's testimony."
"Minaya identified Delgado as the shooter. Quinn saw Delgado flee the scene," Eames summarised.
"A cigarette butt was found at the scene. Delgado doesn't smoke."
Eames was quick to point out that there was no DNA found on the cigarette. She had to dash that itch before Goren was off and running on a wild theory.
"There's no evidence linking Delgado to the scene," he muttered, skimming page after page.
"Bobby," Eames warned.
"Delgado maintains his innocence. Even now. Even when he was offered a plea," Goren went on, ignoring her.
"Bobby."
It was the third time she'd said his name.
Goren froze.
"We have to go where the evidence takes us," he said without looking up.
Alex's breath hitched. It was followed by a soft, unmistakable whimper. She squeezed her eyes shut, humiliated at the fact she was about to cry in the conference room of 1PP while there were dozens of colleagues just outside the glass.
Goren lifted his head.
He didn't want to. More than anything, he wanted to ignore her warm face and quivering lip altogether—but he couldn't.
A choked sob escaped from her throat. She was trying so hard to keep it together. Alex's voice cracked when she spoke to address her partner.
"This isn't another one of your puzzles! This… this is my life."
Eames took a breath. She pushed her hair back from her face.
"I'm sorry," she apologised.
"Don't be," Goren replied gently.
She'd put up with plenty of his emotional outbursts over the course of their partnership, he couldn't begrudge her tears for such a sensitive case.
"I can take Daniels with me to—"
"No," Eames interjected. "No, I have to see this through."
It was a long, chilly five-and-a-half-hour ride to the northeast corner of New York state. The Clinton Correctional facility in Dannemora was near the Canadian border.
Captain Ross called the warden to make arrangements. They would speak with Delgado first thing in the morning. Goren and Eames left immediately, stopping only to retrieve their go-bags from their lockers.
Goren drove.
He didn't pester her for information on the drive—which was just fine by Alex.
Aside from a brief stop in Albany, they drove straight on into the night. They didn't stop until they reached Plattsburgh on the shores of Lake Champlain.
Goren pulled the NYPD SUV into the parking lot of a chain hotel.
The one place in town that sold Chinese takeaway was already shut down for the evening. The hotel sauna was closed for renovations. And the manager apologised profusely as she only had one room left.
"Sorry. There's a wedding in town," she said, flashing the pair a sympathetic smile.
Alex was too exhausted to care. She simply replied with a stiff nod as she handed over her bank card.
The room was dark save for a sliver of light that came in from the parking lot outside. Alex kept the light off. She tossed her duffle bag across the room to claim the second queen bed by the window.
"Eames—"
"If you're gonna be up reading all night I'd ask that you go down to the lobby," she said, addressing him without turning around.
Eames didn't want to fight against Goren sitting under a lamp in the corner reading into the wee small hours of the morning.
It wasn't the first time they'd been forced to share a hotel room while on assignment. They'd shared rooms in the past, including before they had a sexual relationship.
But this was the first time Eames minded. She desperately wanted to be alone.
Eames shrugged off her jacket and threw it on the chair by the television.
"Alex, I—"
Eames waved him off. She wasn't exactly angered—she was exhausted.
Eames rummaged through her bag for her toothbrush. Goren closed his eyes and prayed for patience. He always knew exactly what to say or do to comfort a witness or a stunned family member in those pivotal moments.
He had no idea how to comfort his partner.
Bobby was completely out of his element.
So, Bobby decided to do what he did best and retreat. He sighed and gripped his binder.
"I'm just gonna…" he said, backing toward the door.
"Right," Eames replied curtly as she passed him, toothbrush in hand.
Goren found a quiet corner downstairs in the lobby. He sat down in an armchair and crossed his leg, resting one foot on the opposite knee. His binder was unfurled across his lap—a mix of old case reports, notes, and printouts he'd managed to snag before their departure.
He tapped his pen against the page, increasing both the speed and pressure as Joe Dutton's smiling face stared back from the news clipping on the page below.
Bobby had long since given up on reading through case details. His mind was preoccupied with his own inability to be emotionally and mentally present for his partner.
Bobby's binder snapped shut.
The room was still dark when he returned. Eames was curled up on the bed, facing the window as she ran her thumb over her necklace absentmindedly.
Bobby could tell from her breathing that she was still awake.
He quietly slipped off his shoes. He hung his jacket in the closet and laid his trousers onto the bed so they wouldn't be wrinkled in the morning.
Bobby padded across the carpet. He ignored his own bed and climbed into the one closest to the window.
Alex didn't argue when he spooned up behind her. Bobby threw his arm over Alex and pulled her back against him.
"Come here," Bobby whispered.
Alex released her grip on her necklace. Bobby's hand shot up and covered her own, directing it back to that spot.
"It's alright," he said softly.
Bobby was relieved when he finally felt her relax. Alex said nothing. Bobby too remained silent. He was simply present as he held her.
It was the first time all day that Alex didn't have to put on airs, fake a smile, or feign strength she didn't feel just to get through another uncomfortable conversation. Each moment from the funeral to the bullpen was another bitter reminder of just how lonely her life remained—even ten years on.
Alex knew the statistics.
Most people widowed at her age (after a period of mourning and contemplation) repartnered—either through a second marriage or cohabiting with a serious partner.
Alex also knew that if someone found love again, it typically happened within the first ten years or not at all.
A decade on from Joe's death and Alex was lying in a cheap hotel room, in her work partner's arms, clutching her a necklace made from her dead husband's wedding band.
Sure, Alex could fill her sexual needs when she wanted to. She had no struggle there—at least, not beyond the demands of her job. She found fulfilment in being an aunt and caring for her nieces and nephews.
But none of that could completely fill the emptiness of being widowed. She faced the world alone. She could only rely on herself. She always had to be the strong one, the problem solver. There was no one to share life with, nor for her to care for in return.
And it stung.
The one person that Alex trusted implicitly was Robert Goren.
He was the only person with whom Alex could truly share her concerns, her moments of joy.
Herself.
She didn't have to work. She could simply be.
Yet at the same time, Alex wanted to impress Bobby. He challenged her to be a better person, a better detective. His presence was motivation to learn more about the world, to read more, and see more, and do more.
To keep living.
Bobby was a sullen, irritating, peculiar man.
His trauma stood like a great barrier that prevented him from being emotionally available in the way Alex needed.
He had a tendency to shut himself away from the world, withhold information, and bottle his own emotions until they exploded at inconvenient and inappropriate times.
And, if she were being honest, Alex didn't much care for his experimental jazz noir albums or his frequent references to obscure art house films.
But she loved him—grey hair, temper, eccentricities and all.
Alex understood that Bobby would likely never change. She would spend the rest of her life loving a man that couldn't love her back in the way she wanted to be loved.
She could find someone else. Bobby would never hold it against her. He wasn't the jealous type.
Alex also knew that as miserable as it was, she would feel worse without him.
Alex and Bobby had both been with other people since their sexual relationship began—and they always wound up back with each other. Bobby's only foray into dating ended abruptly.
Eames kept things casual. She loathed the New York dating scene. She always wound up comparing men to Joe.
Or Bobby.
A year earlier Alex had spent a glorious month with a 6'5" fireman. He had the loveliest blue eyes, a jaw like an anvil, and a tender heart. He spoke three languages. He loved baseball as much as he loved his foster dogs.
And even while she was lying in his bed, her body twitching from the kind of hip-smacking sex she would burn for in her old age, Alex couldn't shake the thought of her partner.
She clenched her thighs together and tried to push away the thought of Bobby's soft brown eyes, his stupid smile, and the irritating way he cocked his head to the side to force eye contact whenever she wanted to be left alone.
Alex had not been with anyone but Bobby since her ordeal with Jo Gage.
He was beautiful in so many ways. It made her heart ache.
Eames was still sore over the fact that Bobby had gone radio silent for five weeks. They still hadn't addressed the elephant in the room.
She had the courage to finally tell Bobby that she loved him. She had openly acknowledged the thread between them, no matter how strange it was.
And he'd ghosted her.
Eames still didn't know where they stood.
His presence in her bed, enveloping her in his embrace, was not sexual or romantic in nature. Alex had no way of knowing if this was intended to signify that their situationship remained unchanged or merely a gesture of platonic emotional support (nor did she want to spoil it by asking).
Alex sighed, resigned that she could either walk away and be miserable or lean into it and learn to treasure the glimmers.
You can't expect a sunset to admire you back. Alex thought.