Author's Note: This chapter begins to wind down the Amends storyline.
In Amends, we never got further resolution on what came next re: Joe Dutton's murder and Manny Beltran's arrest. I wanted to offer a glimpse of that here.
We're led to believe Manny Beltran was a 'kid' when the murder occurred. No age is mentioned, but I've decided to make him 15 at the time of the murder and 25 now. In this story, he's a new resident at Starch Memorial rather than a trauma surgeon.
Thank you for all your support & patience as this story unfolds.
Content Warnings
Discussion of: Trauma, strong language, pregnancy, abortion, and miscarriage/loss.
Scenes containing: Substance use, grief/loss, sex (non-explicit)
Robert Goren was great at lying to suspects. The one person he couldn't fool was himself.
Something Eames said got stuck in his craw and Bobby simply couldn't let it go.
Did Joe tell you anything else about the shooting when they got him to hospital?
I erm… I wasn't there.
She was cagey about the details of that night.
According to Eames, Joe was conscious for ninety minutes after the shooting. Joe was shot in the South Bronx. Eames had still been working Vice in the Bronx at the time. She didn't transfer to Chelsea until after Joe's death.
She should have been there.
When Goren had a hunch, he pursued it relentlessly—regardless of the cost.
Bobby didn't keep a computer at his desk. He wasn't nearly as tech savvy as his partner. Bobby preferred hunting for information in the library (sans electronic devices).
Bobby slid into the chair behind one of the departmental desktop computers and booted up the State Office of Court Administration records. He scoured through every arrest logged on that July night until he found the one that he'd suspected might be in there.
Goren leaned back in his chair and sighed. He closed his eyes and massaged his temples.
It really did feel awful to be right most of the time.
Goren strode in through the door of the NYPD 20th precinct.
"Detective Keller?" Goren asked.
The Sergeant working the desk pointed to the back corner of the room.
"Thanks."
A stout, middle-aged man was hunched over his desk. He spied Goren's shadow on the file in his hands.
"I'll have that report on your desk by the end of the day tomorrow," Keller said without looking up from his work. "Emma's got a recital tonight. I can't be late."
Bobby cleared his throat. Keller looked up, startled by the large man towering over his desk.
"Do I know you?"
"Robert Goren, Major Case," Bobby said, flashing his badge.
Keller gestured for Goren to take a seat in the chair across from his desk.
"Major Case doesn't just drop in for a visit. What can I help you with?" Keller inquired.
"I need to ask you about an arrest you made. It would have been July 1997," Goren said.
Keller's eyebrows shot up in surprise.
"Look, Detective, I've got eighteen open cases. I barely remember what happened last week," Keller said.
He didn't mean to be dismissive—it was just a fact of life.
"In 1997 you were still a uniform. A rookie. You were working out of the Four-One in the Bronx," Bobby said.
"I know my employment history, Detective."
"This would have been an arrest you made the night a cop was shot and killed. Officer Joe Dutton. You made an arrest in conjunction to that shooting. You arrested a woman. She was undercover. Working under the name of 'Ellie Ames,'" Goren said, hoping to trip his memory.
It was obvious from the pained look on Detective Keller's face that he did indeed recall the arrest.
"What do you want to know?"
Bobby dropped his eyes to the hands in his lap and shrugged. He feigned nonchalance to set Keller at ease. He wanted Keller to think this was simply a routine ask and not anything personal.
"Why was she arrested and booked instead of… well, I know you probably had orders to pull her but—"
Bobby trailed off.
Sometimes an arrest was the safest way to extract an undercover officer (especially when time was of the essence).
"Yeah. I remember that one," Keller acknowledged. "We were given orders to arrest her on a material witness warrant in relation to a cop shooting. We were told it was urgent. They never told us that—"
Keller paused and shook his head.
"We just thought she was some broad. Some gangbanger's bird. We didn't know she was the widow."
Keller's comment hung in the air. Bobby could tell from the man's body language that he'd carried the anguish of that mistake for nearly a decade.
"What happened?" Goren asked softly.
12 July | 1997 | Hunts Point, Bronx
It was a hot night. Alex didn't much care for the heat and her stomach was still doing summersaults.
Morning sickness.
There's nothing 'morning' about it when you work nights. Alex mused.
Alex was momentarily overcome with a wave of dizziness—not a good thing in strappy heels. She gripped a lamppost for support. Alex closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
Pull yourself together, Eames. It's not like you're the first working girl to walk the Point with a bun in the oven.
"You alright, hun?"
Alex felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Ruby, one of the veteran working girls that walked the same strip as Alex.
"I'm fine," Alex said, flashing her a reassuring smile.
Ruby wasn't buying it.
"You look a little peaky."
All of sudden, a wave of police cars rushed past with sirens on and lights flashing. Eames counted them as they whizzed by—two, three… an unmarked car, then another two cruisers.
Ruby whistled low and slow.
"Must be something big," she remarked.
"Yeah," Alex replied as she kept her eyes peeled down the street.
Ruby slipped her arm through Alex's and pulled her in the opposite direction.
"C'mon, honey. We don't want to get caught up in whatever's going on down there," Ruby warned.
They barely made it a block when another police cruiser came barrelling down the road. It screeched to a halt and two uniforms rushed out.
"Hands up! Against the wall! Move! Move!"
Alex and Ruby threw their hands up. The arresting officers blew right past Ruby and shoved Alex into the wall. She grunted as she hit the bricks.
"Relax! I'm complying! What the hell is this about?"
She had to put on a good show to maintain her cover.
"Shut up!" Marks, the second officer, barked.
"Yo! She didn't do nothing!" Ruby protested. "We're just out for a walk. Girls' night, you know?"
Eames had to admit the camaraderie between the people working the Point was admirable. NYPD may have had a wall of blue, but nobody closed ranks like the girls on the Point when one of their own was in trouble.
Officer Marks turned his gun on Ruby and ordered her to back off.
At this point, the other people out working surrounded the officers.
"She ain't done nothing!"
"What did she do, huh? What's wrong with you?"
"We got rights, you know!"
Alex could sense the situation was rapidly devolving. She could just tell these two cops were rookies and in over their heads. She had to do something to deescalate the situation before someone got hurt.
"You got a warrant?" Eames demanded.
"Yeah. We do," Keller said.
To Eames's relief, her plan worked. Knowing there was a warrant, the other women eased off. They couldn't risk losing a night's pay.
"You're gonna have to pay in a minute, officer," Eames said as Keller frisked her.
He froze when he felt the piece on her thigh.
"Well, well, well."
In that moment, Keller thought he had made the arrest of his career.
"10-92. Witness in custody. We may have recovered the weapon," Keller reported into his brick radio.
Present
"She had a Colt Detective Special under her skirt and a Glock in her handbag. What was I supposed to think?" Keller explained.
"And that didn't tip you off that she might be a cop?" Bobby asked.
Keller shot Goren a look.
"That's a big gun under a little skirt," Keller said. "In any case, all we were told was that she was a material witness in connection to the cop that was shot."
It was all 'need to know.'
"We heard the suspect fled on foot and was in the area. We knew he was carrying a big calibre gun—you piece it together."
Bobby could see how two eager rookies might think they'd stumbled on their hero moment.
"We just… we thought we were doing the right thing," Keller said.
12 July | 1997 | Hunts Point, Bronx
Keller and his partner stuffed Eames into the back of the squad car.
"What's this about?" Eames asked.
"I dunno. You tell us," Keller replied.
"Who gave you the gun?" Marks asked.
"It's mine," Eames answered.
It had been her father's. Johnny Eames had carried that gun for twenty-five years. Upon his retirement, he'd gifted the .38 to Alex.
Marks reached for the car radio and called in a request to run a check for priors, outstanding warrants, and for details on the serial numbers on Eames's sidearms. The dispatch responded that he would look into it and hit Marks back with the details.
"Whoever he is, honey, he's not worth it," Keller warned.
"Look—you can talk to us, or you can talk to the DA," Marks said.
"Great. Why don't we continue this conversation there?" Eames asked.
11:48 p.m. | 41st Precinct | Bronx
Alex Eames sat on the edge of the bench inside the group holding cell. She was still waiting to be processed.
Officer Keller and his partner, Marks, were just outside at a communal precinct desk.
More than three hours had passed since her arrest. It was a busy night. The precinct was swamped. Alex gathered enough information to know that a cop had been shot. The precinct was flooded with personnel—including backup from neighbouring boroughs.
Something big. Eames realised.
She picked up enough detail from the conversation that spilled out of the bullpen to know an officer had been shot—and that the NYPD was gearing up to pound the streets in an unprecedented crackdown in search of a local yob.
Eames did her best to stay calm. It wasn't the first time she'd been picked up. Such arrests only bolstered her undercover credentials. Before too long, someone from the DA's office would stop out to drop the charges. Eames figured it was just taking longer than usual because of a shooting had occurred.
Eames could out herself as undercover. She didn't carry a badge—that was too risky. But she had her NYPD identification card tucked securely inside a hidden pocket stitched in her bra.
Eames was reluctant to reveal her undercover status. She was part of a team investigating the 41st Precinct itself. Her orders came directly from 1PP. Someone (or a group) in the Four-One were shaking down dealers and sex workers on The Point. They falsified arrests and then offered to look the other way in exchange for a payoff. Sometimes cash or product—occasionally a hot gun or goods.
There was no telling how high up the chain of command the scheme went. Rumour had it the Chief at the Four-One was in on the take.
A part of Alex was worried she'd been pulled from the street because her cover was blown. She might be in a shakedown herself from the infamous NYPD 'Blue Wall' for turning on her own.
Yes, it was best to stay put and quiet until someone from 1PP or the DA's office arrived to sort it all out.
It would be a long night. Alex's stomach grumbled. Joe would beat her home. Hopefully Joe would make breakfast. He usually did on the weekends because that was the time they worked most. It was their way of relaxing after a long, stressful shift.
They liked to toast over coffee and orange juice—survived a long night and lived to fight another day!
Eames closed her eyes and clutched her abdomen as it rumbled.
She sincerely hoped Joe did have breakfast waiting. Her appetite was starting to come back, and Alex was quite sure she could eat a horse.
Suddenly, an influx of people poured into the bullpen. Eames recognised two detectives from 32nd over in Harlem and one uniform from the 114th across the river in Queens.
Alex instinctively shivered.
This is bad.
In a flash, there was a flurry of activity and shouting. Cops and plain clothes detectives got from their desks. They abandoned the water cooler and coffee pot and crowded near the front of the station.
First, a whisper went around the crowd. Murmurs of something or someone. Then, the crowd of officers erupted.
"Back up! BACK UP!" the Captain ordered.
"Pull your pants up, bicho!"
"The boys in Rikers are gonna make you their little bitch," another officer spat.
"You're going down now, Minaya. We got you dead to rights," a third said.
One after another, the assembled officers hurled insults, curses, and swears at Alfred Minaya. Most of the precinct were familiar with Minaya and his gang. As Minaya was led inside, they spat at him. They taunted him, verbally demeaning and humiliating Minaya.
From her cell, Eames grimaced. She couldn't stand the NYPD tradition of the 'perp walk.' It only served to further isolate the community from the department. It didn't get them very far with suspects either.
"My client is here to turn himself in as a witness," an attorney shouted in a warning tone.
"BACK OFF!" the Captain ordered again.
He stepped between the crowd and Minaya, putting his hand up to physically push one rowdy officer back. Tensions were high. Anytime an officer was attacked served as an uncomfortable reminder for the rest of the department.
It could happen to me.
"STEP BACK! Do you want to be the reason that shooter gets off, huh?"
At that, the crowd dispersed. Minaya was escorted to a private room. The Captain informed his attorney that someone from the DA's office was on the way—along with the Chief of D's himself and an escort from 1PP.
It was just too dangerous to keep Minaya at the precinct. The place was a powder keg.
"Hey, hey, hey! It's on," a uniform said, catching sight of a television in the corner.
Everyone fell silent. A uniform officer cranked the volume so they could hear the latest update from the local news.
"Breaking news tonight out of Hunts Point. WNBC news can now confirm the identity of the officer shot earlier this evening."
Alex's lungs ceased to function.
Somehow, she managed to get up from the bench. Alex walked to the edge of the cell. She stood there, motionless, as she stared at Joe's service photograph on the television screen. It stared back at her, equally unmoving.
Smiling. Jovial. Happy to serve.
That was Joe.
The reporter was still speaking. Officers stood in shock. But it all felt like an out-of-body experience for Alex.
"Officer Dutton is a ten-year veteran of the NYPD. According to a source within the department, Dutton remains in critical condition following tonight's shooting. The thoughts of all of us here at the WNBC family are with Officer Dutton and his family."
Alex was hit with a wave of emotion. Anger, disbelief, fear—it was all too jumbled to process. In spite of that overwhelming cocktail, one thought pushed through to the front of her mind.
He's alive.
Her knees gave out.
An arm shot out and caught Alex just as she collapsed against the bars.
"Whoa, easy. You crashing?" asked one of the other women in holding. "Hey! Can we get some wahtah in here?"
A harsh 'shut up' from Officer Keller followed.
"Hey! Officer! She ain't alright. I think she's coming down from something.''
"Shut up," Keller repeated.
All eyes were still glued on the television and the breaking news report about Officer Dutton's shooting.
Alex gripped the bar of the holding cell. She tried to get up, but her legs were unstable.
"I need to speak with your Captain. Now," she pleaded.
Officer Keller didn't acknowledge her request. The more Eames pleaded, the harder he tried to ignore her.
"I'm pregnant," Alex said, hoping that would stir him to action.
All it accomplished was a sarcastic 'congratulations.'
Eames didn't hesitate. She didn't care about her investigation or her duty.
"Look—I'm a cop! Badge number 5798!" Eames insisted.
It was a major risk for Alex to out herself in the middle of a holding cell. She could earn the ire of her fellow neighbours.
"Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, sweetheart."
Keller had heard it all from working girls and junkies. Just last week he had a woman claim to be the secret love child of a Greek shipping magnate that was only conducting 'research' for a book.
Alex glanced overhead at the television. At Joe's photo. When she spoke again, her voice was soft. It shook, sounding utterly unlike the always self-assured Detective Eames.
"That's my husband. Please."
Keller sat up straight and looked back at the holding cell. He rose from his desk and stopped after a few feet, looking and back and forth from Eames to the television.
"That's your husband?"
Eames nodded.
Officer Keller marched directly for the cell. He hauled Alex to her feet and whisked her out of holding and down an adjacent corridor.
"I… I need to get to the hospital. Do you know where they've taken him?"
Just when she thought she had found her escape, Alex realised that he was not leading her toward the Captain's Office or one of the conference rooms.
They stopped in front of a small, private holding cell.
Isolation.
"No! No, no, no, no! You don't understand!"
Keller's hand closed painfully around her elbow.
"Get in there and shut up!"
When Eames wouldn't budge, he shoved her inside. She stumbled into the concrete wall.
Alex launched herself at the door just as it sealed shut. She shouted, pounding in vain against the metal door until her fists were bruised.
"Please! I'm a cop! That's my husband! Let me talk to your Captain!"
Outside, Keller kicked the door and barked at her to stop.
"That guy, a good guy, a cop for Christ's sake, is bleedin' out and you want to try and exploit that?" Keller shouted through the door. "You people make me fucking sick!"
Alex shrank against the wall. She pulled her knees close and allowed herself to cry.
Present
Goren stared, unblinking.
"And… and no one thought to check?"
Keller's face fell.
"We thought she was a junkie. You know they'll say anything. We'd already searched her purse. There was no shield. No ID—except a fake under her manufactured ID. There was a manufactured record," Keller explained.
It was a horrible mistake.
Eames had insisted until she was blue in the face that she could prove she was an officer—her departmental ID was stuffed in her bra.
"We thought it was a setup. Like she was gonna try and claim we were inappropriate after the arrest," Keller went on.
"How long was she in isolation?" Bobby asked.
"Hours," Keller answered grimly.
It was nearly 4:00 in the morning before the error was discovered.
"When the Chief of D's arrived with an entourage from 1PP to take Minaya downtown, I mentioned to one of the guys—"
Keller paused and grimaced.
"I thought I'd made the arrest of my career. I boasted that I had the material witness and may have recovered the murder weapon," Keller acknowledged.
He genuinely believed that he was helping the investigation.
"I thought he was gonna hit the roof. He interrupted the meeting with the Chief of D's right then and there. Next thing I know, they rushed her out the door."
Keller took a shaky breath.
"It wasn't until later that Keller found out she was the widow."
He felt he deserved to be punished. And in the days that followed, Keller prepared himself for a demotion or expulsion from the force.
Nothing came.
Keller attended Dutton's funeral, hat in hand, feeling three inches tall as he worked up the courage to try and apologise.
"She shook my damn hand and told me it wasn't my fault."
His eyes grew misty. He cleared his throat and tried to carry on.
"She uh… she told me I was just doing my job. Thanked me for coming," Keller choked out. "God, I was so awful to her."
Bobby didn't need a crystal ball to know why. He knew that deep down, Eames only blamed one person for that night—herself.
"Right. Thanks for your candour," Goren replied.
Goren got up from the desk. He turned to go and then paused.
"You don't happen to know who it was from 1PP that—"
"Stanislav Bardum," Keller replied without missing a beat.
Where have I heard that name? Bobby wondered.
He racked his brain looking for the answer. It was right there on the tip of his tongue. He could taste it.
"He was out of the One-Nine back in the day before he moved up in Vice. Some kind of supervisor with undercovers," Keller explained.
Bobby's face contorted in pain. He knew that name.
"Stash. I'm sure you've probably crossed paths before. He's been around forever," Keller said.
Stash.
Now Bobby could place the name. Stash had worked with Eames twice during her career—first when she was a rookie in Manhattan's One-Nine and again after she joined Vice. Stash was her first partner.
Eames often spoke fondly of Stash and considered him a great mentor.
Bobby was familiar with Stash by name and reputation only. The rumour was that Stash had retired and taken a cushy private security job.
Goren only had to ask one person back at 1PP to get a number for Stash. Bobby stepped into the conference room and shut the door to make the call.
Bobby had been so eager to understand, so keen to chase this lead that he failed to see the obvious. He should have anticipated Stash's resistance.
"What is this regarding?" Stash asked, dodging Goren's question.
"I'm sure you're aware that Detective Kevin Quinn was recently murdered," Goren replied.
"Yes."
Goren had to admire Stash's ability to answer a question without giving away any additional information.
"It's possible his murder is related to the murder of another officer, Detective Joe Dutton," Goren went on. "I'm just trying to establish a timeline of events that night."
"You should really speak with the officers involved in that investigation," Stash said. His voice came across as helpful, but Goren knew it was intended to shut down the conversation.
Goren was quick on his feet.
"Unfortunately, the lead Detective on the case has passed away. I've been chasing my tail here to track down a material witness that was arrested that night. All the paperwork seems to be a dead end," Goren said.
It was partially true.
"Ray Delgado was convicted in Dutton's murder."
It seemed that Stash had a runaround for everything.
"Yes. It's possible Delgado wasn't the shooter. Like I said, we think this may be connected to a new murder. Two actually—Alfred Minaya, the witness in Dutton's case, was also murdered recently."
Stash wasn't rattled.
"What can you tell me about the material witness that was arrested that night? A woman? I have reason to believe that she was actually—"
"I think that if you have questions for Detective Eames that you should talk with her directly instead of pulling a runaround on your partner."
With that, Stash wished Goren a good rest of the afternoon and disconnected the call.
Bobby dropped his mobile on the table. He buried his head in his hands and squeezed his eyes shut.
Bobby wasn't sure how long he sat there. After some time, he heard the door open and shut. He didn't need to look up to know who was standing there. He could feel Eames watching him.
Bobby tentatively peeked out and found Eames standing inside the door. He expected her to look cross or deliver a verbal lashing for talking to Stash.
Instead, she was holding a folder in hand.
"Theresa Quinn is going to talk to Carver. Ask for a plea deal. Turns out Kevin and Theresa have been sort of…"
Eames struggled to find the right word.
"Mentoring Victor, I guess," she settled on.
"That bothers you," Bobby observed.
Eames feigned ignorance.
"It bothers you," Bobby repeated as he got up from his chair. "Your… your friends that couldn't find it in themselves to stay in touch, to support you after Joe's death and… and you find out that they've been caring for Victor. Taking an interest in his welfare."
He leaned in close, dropping his posture so he was eye-level with his partner.
"It's only natural to be angry."
"This isn't about me," Eames said with rehearsed nonchalance.
They were inside the conference room, its glass walls made everything inside visible to the rest of Major Case.
Bobby did the unexpected. He reached for Eames's hand.
"It's okay to feel angry," he said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.
Alex retracted her hand.
"I called around regarding the DNA hit we got on that cigarette," Eames said.
"Straight to business then, eh? No time to process? Just shut off your feelings? Eames, you know it's bad when I'm the one—"
Alex angrily pushed her hair back out of her face.
"Ross is right. I shouldn't be working this case," she said.
She couldn't meet Bobby's eye. She kept her attention fixated on the bullpen.
"I'm going to turn the file over on that DNA hit to Logan and Wheeler," Eames announced.
"You're mad I called Stash."
For a moment, Bobby's statement hung in the air. Neither of them spoke. Goren dropped his gaze to the tile floor, staring at his shoes. Eames chewed on the inside of her lip as she grappled over wanting to deck her partner or simply walking away.
Desperate to preserve a shred of peace and professionalism, Alex chose to deflect.
"If you want to join Logan and Wheeler in chasing down this lead—be my guest," Eames said.
"Wait."
Eames stopped.
"You need to see this through. You want to see this through," Bobby said.
Bobby climbed into the SUV in the basement of the 1PP parking garage and waited for Eames to crawl into the driver's side.
She shut the door. He waited for her to adjust the seat. She always had to adjust the seat and mirrors. Eames put the key into the ignition and then took a heavy breath.
"I think it's… it's good for you to see through to the end. Once and for all," Bobby remarked, hoping to reassure his partner.
He could only imagine what kind of lasting unresolved trauma remained from that night and the horrible error that prevented Eames from being there for Joe.
"It's healthy," Bobby added.
Eames rolled her eyes.
"Oh, please."
"I mean it," Bobby pressed.
"You're really the last person who ought to be—"
Goren put his hands in the universal sign of surrender.
"No, no. You're right," he agreed.
Tragedy did indeed breed tragedy.
If Alex had known what awaited them upon arrival at Starch Memorial Hospital in Queens, she would have turned the SUV around and gone back to 1PP.
She would have turned the lead over to Logan and Wheeler, pulled herself off the case, taken the rest of the day off, and gone home.
She would have given anything to go back to that long ride and the moment on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway where a tiny voice in the back of her mind screamed that she should miss the exit, to turn back.
Alex had expected to hear one of the men that was long since dead had been responsible.
She never expected to find the true shooter from that night alive and well and living right in Queens.
Goren and Eames strolled into the entrance of the Starch Memorial Trauma Centre and were directed up to the third floor.
"Manny Beltran?" Eames asked.
A young man turned and glanced back over his shoulder. He was just scrubbing up at one of the sinks.
"We're with Major Case," Goren said.
Beltran was quick to dry his hands.
"I'm sorry I can't shake your hand. What can I do for you two Detectives?" Beltran asked.
Bobby's eyes dropped the ID clipped to Beltran's green scrubs.
"You're erm… you're a resident?" Goren asked. "How did you wind up in Queens? Isn't it a bit of a gamble where you get placed?"
Beltran nodded and smiled.
"Yeah. I applied to a lot of different programmes. Just luck I wound up here in Queens where I have family," Beltran said.
The hair on the back of Bobby's neck rose as he picked up on the scent of a trail.
"You have family here?" Goren inquired.
"My Aunt. I used to come stay sometimes in the summer when I was kid," Manny answered.
Beltran looked back and forth between the two Detectives.
"Is this about Detective Quinn? We did everything we could," Beltran said. "I just started my residency, so I'm not sure how much help I can be. But Doctor Takenaka will be on duty in about an hour."
Beltran was only trying to be helpful. Beltran had only been a minor part of the team caring for Kevin Quinn that night.
"Doctor Takenaka was the trauma surgeon on the night we operated on Detective Quinn. I'm sure he could answer any questions you may have," Beltran said.
Goren noted the heavy nicotine stains on Beltran's hands. Without asking, he reached for one and held it up into the light.
"That's what… at least a three pack a day habit?" Goren inquired.
Beltran shrugged.
"I started smoking when I was a kid. Hard to kick," Beltran acknowledged.
Bobby nodded in agreement.
Boy, do I know it.
At that point, Eames was still fully expecting that they would find out one of Minaya's deceased associates had been the killer. Manny Beltran was a convenient witness, one that had clearly cut ties with Minaya's gang long ago.
"We're actually not here about Detective Quinn. We're here about another murder—Detective Joseph Dutton," Eames said.
Beltran didn't react.
"We got a DNA hit on a cigarette from the crime scene. We know you were there. And we need to know what you saw that night," Eames said.
Beltran sat down in the nearest chair. He dropped his gaze. His hands trembled.
"You were there, weren't you? You saw what happened? Is that why you cut ties with Minaya? With that life?" Eames pressed.
"Oh, god," Beltran remarked.
Eames's heart went out to him.
"You were only a kid then. Witnessing a horrible crime. It's understandable why you didn't come forward," Eames went on.
Beltran looked up, pleadingly.
"Alfred put me on a plane back to San Juan the next day. He told me to never talk about it," Manny shared.
A plane back to San Juan.
Instructions to never mention it.
It all clicked.
Bobby scratched his forehead. His palm was sweaty as he clutched the handle on his leather binder.
"The erm… the plane back to San Juan. Alfred. Your Aunt that you mentioned, she's Yvette Minaya, isn't she? Alfred was your cousin," Bobby said, piecing it together.
It all made sense. Ray Delgado made it clear that Minaya protected his people—of course, it made sense that he would throw one of his own to the NYPD in order to protect family.
It was the only explanation.
Bobby didn't have to press any further. Manny Beltran's lip quivered. His eyes started to water.
He broke down—a decade of guilt and fear and regret overwhelmed him.
"It was an accident," Manny sobbed.
Not a day went by when Beltran didn't relive that horrible night. He was haunted by the memory of that moment, the weight of the gun in his hand. He could still taste the acrid smell that followed.
It was the one and only time Manny Beltran had ever fired a gun. From that moment on, he had no desire to ever hold one again.
"I… I was just showing off. Just messing around with that stupid fucking Glock," Manny cried. "And…. and it went off."
"Joe—"
Alex stopped and corrected herself.
"Officer Dutton was killed because you were playing with a gun?" she asked, fearing she had misheard him.
Beltran nodded mournfully.
Alex visibly staggered. She rolled her shoulders and cracked her neck from side-to-side.
"Why?"
Beltran scrunched up his face and shook his head.
Cousin Alfred had a fine car. His girlfriend was attractive. Alfred wore designer sneakers. He always had the best sunglasses, the coolest new albums.
For a fifteen-year-old boy, Alfred was the epitome of success.
"It was the first summer that Alfred let me ride along. I was desperate to impress them. I just… I wanted to look cool," Manny confessed.
He felt so ashamed of himself.
"I still have nightmares. Alfred and Gian tried to block the doors. They ordered me to run. He… grabbed my hand and begged me to get help," Manny recounted between tears. "He… he wasn't angry. H-h-he told me it was all just an accident. That he understood."
Alex's stomach dropped. She felt too warm, like she was going to be sick.
"It's the only time I've ever held a gun. I never… I never meant to hurt him."
One fucking time. Eames thought bitterly.
The one fucking time that kid picked up a gun and he had to wave it around like a toy. And it had to be Joe's last damn night in Narcotics.
"That night. That officer. He's the reason I went to med school, the reason I do everything," Manny wept. "I just want to make amends somehow. I don't even know who he was."
Detective Goren cleared his throat.
"Please stand up, Mr Beltran," he said.
Goren moved to hand his leather binder of notes to his partner when he stopped. Instead, he passed Eames the cuffs.
She stared down at them for a second as if debating whether she should make the arrest or not.
"I—"
Goren gave her a gentle, wordless nudge.
Eames grabbed the cuffs and ordered Beltran to turn around.
"Manny Beltran, you're under arrest," she announced.
Beltran didn't resist as Alex explained his rights.
"I understand," Beltran said.
One Police Plaza
Manny Beltran sat at the steel table inside the Major Case interrogation room at 1PP as he quietly wrote out his confession.
Beltran was offered (and refused) counsel.
I did this. I have to come clean. Beltran had said.
Detective Goren sat across from Beltran, supervising in silence as Beltran outlined the events of that night and what followed.
On the opposite of the glass, Captain Ross observed the scene. Eames was there too, standing between Ross and Ron Carver.
"I hate to ask, Detective, but you didn't—"
Carver didn't get a chance to finish his question. Captain Ross cut in with a biting defence of his best team.
"If you're asking if my Detectives did anything to coerce or threaten Mr Beltran," Ross began in warning.
"Not at all," Carver said, his level baritone smoothing over any misunderstanding.
"He just… confessed," Eames said.
There was a strange, faraway look in her eyes. Eames was physically present—but miles away in her head.
"It was all a misunderstanding. I figured one of Minaya's crew must have… well, I never thought—"
She trailed off and left the rest unsaid.
"I never would have gone to question him if I'd known," Eames said.
She would have removed herself from the investigation.
"Detectives Eames and Goren were just tracking down a lead. We had no evidence to indicate that Mr Beltran was the shooter," Ross added.
Ross may have felt uneasy about the circumstances, but it was too late to change now. All he could do was defend the actions of his squad.
"Is this going to cause an issue for the DA's office?" Ross asked.
Carver shrugged.
"Mr Beltran seems to be cooperating."
Manny Beltran put up no protest. He openly and freely confessed to his crime and said he was prepared to accept responsibility for that night. He'd refused counsel.
"Once he's finished with Detective Goren, I'll go in and see if he's interested in a plea," Carver explained.
He had no doubt the DA's office would be keen to handle it in a swift manner.
"I should warn you, Mr Beltran was only fifteen when this crime occurred. There's every possibility he'll be tried and sentenced under juvenile guidelines," Carver said.
He glanced over at Detective Eames and tried to gauge her reaction.
"Detective, unless you have any objection, I intend to offer Mr Beltran a deal to plead to criminally negligent homicide," Carver advised.
Before Alex could answer, there was a knock at the door.
Mike Logan poked his head inside.
"Erm Captain," he said.
A short, balding man in a suit stepped inside. He was accompanied by a young woman and Yvette Minaya.
"Dennis," Carver said.
"Ron," the man replied.
He seemed friendly, but Carver's tense expression had Eames on edge.
"Captain, Detective, this is Dennis Todd," Carver said, introducing them.
Todd shook hands with them both as he introduced himself. Todd was an attorney with Community Collaboration Queens, a community safety advocacy organisation that sought to tackle causes ranging from police reform and gang violence to affordable housing, gun safety, and playground accessibility.
"You've been retained as counsel for Mr Beltran?" Ron asked, piecing it together.
"Actually, I'm just here until Danielle arrives," Todd answered.
Carver's eyebrows arched.
"Danielle Melnick?"
Melnick was a formidable defence attorney with a well-established practice. She took on tough, high-profile cases and had garnered a reputation as a bulldog in the courtroom.
The only reason someone brought in Melnick was if they were gearing up for a fight.
"Be my guest if you wish to speak with him, just know that Mr Beltran has refused counsel. I was about to offer a plea for criminally negligent homicide," Carver explained in the hope they might avoid escalating the situation.
Todd shook his head.
"I'd like to speak with Mr Beltran first."
Eames was at her desk when Melnick strolled into Major Case.
Captain Ross, Carver, and Goren emerged from the corridor that led to interrogation not long after. Ross gestured for Eames to join them in his office for a quick meeting as he filled Eames in on what she'd missed.
"She's Beltran's fiancée. And you already know his aunt."
Alex nodded.
"I'd like to sit down with each of you separately and go over the events at Starch Memorial today," Carver announced.
He didn't have to spell it out. He needed to confirm that Eames's and Goren's account of what happened was in line with the law and independently verifiable.
C.Y.A.
"Detectives Logan and Wheeler handle all further investigation regarding this case," Ross added.
They couldn't risk even a whiff of bias.
"This is enough to free Delgado, though. Right?" Goren pressed.
He didn't want Ray Delgado forced to spend any more time in prison due to a slick defence.
Carver nodded slowly.
"I'll file the paperwork immediately. And I'll speak with the DA personally as soon as I'm done here," Carver promised.
Carver interviewed Eames first.
Goren was at his desk chatting with Detectives Logan and Wheeler when Mr Beltran was escorted out to be transferred to his arraignment.
"Looks like it's your turn," Logan said.
Goren glanced back over his shoulder and watched as Eames stepped out of Ross's office. Carver gestured for Goren to join him next.
"And you and your partner had no inkling that Mr Beltran was the shooter? There was no sign beforehand?" Carver inquired.
"No," Goren answered honestly.
Ron stopped writing and looked up from his notes.
"When did you first suspect Mr Beltran?"
Goren sighed. His face was expressionless as he thought back to the arrest.
"I think… I think I first pieced it together when he said he had family here in New York. This whole case it… it all comes back to that," Goren said.
Bobby was restless. Normally, Bobby was itching to check in with his mother after a tough case.
Can't do that now. He thought with a pang of grief.
"Why did your partner make the arrest and not you?" Carver asked.
Bobby shrugged.
"Detective Eames was only doing her job. She didn't do anything wrong," Bobby asserted.
"I'm sure she was professional," Carver said.
He had no doubt of Eames's composure and professionalism. She was a good Detective. She played by the rules. Her integrity wasn't in question (at least not by Carver).
"But that still doesn't answer my question," Carver pressed.
Detective Goren sat up straight in his chair and looked hard at ADA Carver.
"The arrest was by the book. I just… I didn't even think about the ramifications. I had my hands full. Eames stepped in," Goren said.
It wasn't entirely a lie.
Bobby hadn't put a thought to the ramifications of Eames making the collar. His mind was preoccupied about what was best for Alex Eames the person—not the Detective.
He wanted her to have closure.
And in retrospect, Bobby wasn't entirely sure if that was because he wanted it for her or for himself.
Because if Robert Goren dug deep enough, he had to admit that a part of him wanted Alex to close that chapter of her life. As foolish and stupid as it was, Bobby couldn't shake knowing that Joe's ghost hung over her like a shadow.
It was always between them.
There was sadness under all that armour Eames wore.
And Bobby was afraid that's all there ever would be between them.
"Thank you, Detective. You can go," Carver said.
Eames was gone by the time Bobby's interview concluded.
Bobby threw on his overcoat and raced out of 1PP. He had an inkling that he knew exactly where she was headed.
It took ten minutes for Bobby to hoof it from 1PP over to the courthouse.
Bobby arrived just in time to catch Manny Beltran's arraignment. He glanced around the courtroom. There was no sign of Eames.
"Your honour, the people request the defendant be remanded without bail."
The Judge turned to the defence counsel for their response.
Diane Melnick leaned over the table. The courtroom fell silent. Melnick had that effect—she was always in complete command of any room she entered.
Many in the NYPD considered Melnick to be the enemy. They regarded her with disdain.
Bobby thought she was a brilliant legal mind—and that's what scared him about this case.
"Your honour, my client is an established member of this community. Mr Beltran is a recent graduate of medical school currently in residence at Starch Memorial. He has numerous ties to the community."
Melnick offered a brief outline of Beltran's life. He was Big Brother. He volunteered his time with Community Collaboration, marched to end gun violence, and was a voluntary counsellor with victim's services.
The courtroom was packed with dozens of community activists and hospital personnel from Starch Memorial to show their support.
There was no one there for Joe.
"Bail is set at $50,000," announced the Judge.
With a bang of the gavel, they were on to the next hearing.
Bobby moved to make himself scarce as Manny Beltran's family talked with his friends at Community Collaboration about the bail.
"We'll have him home soon," Mr Todd assured them.
Manny's fiancée was there along with Yvette Minaya, the aunt. Mrs Minaya reached for the fiancée's hands and managed a warm smile.
"He is going to fight this," Yvette promised. "We won't let them send Manny away."
It seemed that in spite of his eagerness to come clean, the family was desperate for Manny to fight the charges.
Bobby couldn't blame them.
Even reduced charges still carried time. Beltran was facing anywhere from one to fifteen years in prison depending on how it all shook out.
The whole situation left a foul taste in Goren's mouth.
It wasn't justice, not by a long shot.
Bobby just picked up his binder and made a beeline for the doors—nearly running right over a petite woman in a hurry.
"Pardon me," Goren said.
The woman scowled, glaring up at Detective Goren with the kind of aristocratic attitude Bobby was accustomed to getting whenever a case led to Park Avenue.
She was smartly dressed—a conservative suit, pearls, low heels. Goren suspected she must have come from money.
Old money.
The woman looked Bobby up and down. He expected her to tell him off, but she paused when she caught sight of the badge clipped to his trench.
"We're looking for Courtroom 8. The arraignment of a—"
She trailed off, snapping her fingers as she searched for the name.
"James? What was that name?" she demanded.
A tall, lithe man with thinning sandy hair stepped forward.
"I'm not certain, dear," he answered.
The woman waved off her husband and looked to Bobby for assistance.
"In any case, Courtroom 8?"
"Oh erm… it's… it's right here," Bobby said, pointing over his shoulder.
He stepped aside to allow them room to pass. The woman gripped her husband's arm and pointed.
"That's him. Right there," she hissed.
The husband looked uncomfortable.
"We don't know that, Margaret. Why don't we sit down and see, hmm?"
"No. That's him. See? He's got that witch representing him. She's a Jew, you know?" the woman remarked.
Bobby's eyebrows shot up. The woman seemed to take notice.
"I'm not prejudiced. We socialise with our Jewish neighbours," she shot back. "Oh... what is their name? Himelbuam? Himelstein?"
Her poor henpecked husband bit his tongue. It was obvious he had long ago resigned himself to his wife's horrendous outbursts.
"I told you we were going to be late, James."
"I cannot make the 495 go faster," he replied.
Bobby stood there and studied the pair. They seemed oblivious to his presence until the woman realised this tall, rumpled stranger was still standing there taking up space.
"What are you looking at?" she demanded.
Bobby flashed her a nervous smile.
"You're erm… you're Mrs Dutton," he said.
The woman's steely eyes narrowed.
"Yes. And you are…?"
Bobby quickly recovered. He stuffed his binder under his arm and extended his hand.
"Detective Goren. Major Case. You're Joe Dutton's parents."
"Yes."
Bobby nodded slowly. Now he saw the resemblance in the face and stature of Mr Dutton.
"You're Joe's mum and you… you're Joe's dad."
"Yes," Mrs Dutton repeated slowly.
Bobby chuckled.
"Are you daft?" Mrs Dutton asked.
At this, Bobby's grin only grew.
Yep, she was a total piece of work. He could only imagine what holidays in the Dutton house must have been like between Mrs Dutton's overbearing attitude and Eames's laid-back persona and dry sense of humour.
"Forgive me, I just… erm… read your son's case file and I see the resemblance, Mr Dutton," Bobby said, scratching above his eyebrow.
He'd been half tempted to say, 'I feel like I know you,' but thought better of it.
"You're working this case?" Mrs Dutton asked. "I hear they may let that lowlife dealer go because of this."
"Ah. Well, Mr Delgado is innocent. He didn't murder your son," Bobby explained.
Mrs Dutton eyed him sceptically.
"And this one? What are they doing with this little Mexican jumping bean? Or is the NYPD going to botch that too?" Mrs Dutton snarled.
Bobby didn't baulk. He fell back on his disarming, bumbling Detective routine.
"Mr Delgado was just arranged. He's actually Puerto Rican," Bobby said.
Mrs Dutton scoffed.
"I don't care. They're all the same. Illegal," she said, waving him off.
"Mr Beltran is a US citizen," Bobby countered politely.
Mrs Dutton leaned in close. She wasn't intimidated by Detective Goren's size, nor did she buy into his affable charm.
"I don't care if he's a cocker spaniel. If the NYPD screws this up—"
Mr Dutton put a hand on his wife's shoulder to try and back her down.
"Let's just say that we know several very important people in Albany," Mrs Dutton concluded.
Bobby nodded politely to the pair as they stepped inside the courtroom. Instead of heading for the door, Goren took up a spot on the bench outside and waited behind one of the large marble pillars.
Sure enough, Mrs Dutton emerged a few minutes later in a huff—scolding her husband for the fact the drive into the city took too long.
"I'm sure they'll call when they know more. We'll be here next time," Mr Dutton said. "That Mr Logan said he would keep us informed."
"Oh please, James. Do you really want to put your faith in another underpaid city employee? You know they have to say that. He'll never have the time," Mrs Dutton said.
"I'll call for Roger to bring the car," Mr Dutton advised.
Bobby listened as the click of her heels stopped. Mrs Dutton rolled her shoulders back and smoothed the front of her suit jacket.
"I hope you noticed who wasn't here."
Mr Dutton didn't reply.
"That little hussy probably doesn't even care," she fumed.
"Darling, we barely knew about this. She might not have been able to come," Mr Dutton pointed out.
"She should have dropped everything. That's what a good wife would do."
Oy vey.
There was no love lost between Mrs Dutton and her daughter-in-law.
As soon as the Dutton's were gone, Bobby picked up his binder and started back on the walk to 1PP.
161 Post Ave | Inwood | Manhattan
Alex pulled the dry clothes out and deposited them into a basket. She then cracked open the old washing machine and began to move the wet clothes into the dryer.
Upstairs, she heard the sound of her father's footsteps as the floor above creaked. It was followed by the rattling of glass and clinking plates.
"Leave it, dad! I'll be up in a minute," Alex hollered.
She paused, listening as her father continued to rummage through the kitchen.
"Dad!" she shouted in a firm voice.
Alex dropped the washing. She rolled her eyes as she prepared to march back up the stairs. She was nearly there when her father called down.
"It's fine. I got it."
Alex just threw her hands up and turned back to the washing.
She was just sorting the next load when there was a loud crash from above. Eames rushed upstairs to find her dad on the linoleum floor—wearing a broken glass of whisky and a smile.
"I just slipped," Johnny said.
Alex knelt down by her father. She thrust out her hand to keep him in place.
"Don't move. There's glass," she warned.
There was no point in getting mad. It wouldn't make a difference. Johnny Eames was drunk. He was drunk the day before and he'd be drunk by the same time tomorrow.
He wasn't an angry drunk—he was a sad drunk.
Alex didn't want to come to her father's house. But she was her father's primary caretaker and there was just too much work for Eames to put it off.
Try as she may to redirect her father's mind, it always came back to the same place. The plates reminded Johnny of the summer when he and his wife saved stamps to buy them from the grocer.
A plate of tuna hotdish or scrambled eggs was enough to bring tears to his eyes.
Your mother used to make it just like this. He would say.
At least Johnny managed to salvage the bottle of bottom-shelf whisky. He sat there, perfectly still and sipping right from the bottle as Alex carefully picked up the shards of glass.
"Don't go anywhere yet, dad," Alex said.
She got up and pulled the bin over for ease of disposal.
As Alex worked to pick up the pieces, Johnny took note that there was something weighing on her heart.
Alex paused as her dad reached up to tuck her hair back behind her ear.
"What's wrong?" Johnny asked.
"Nothing," Alex replied.
Johnny smirked and wagged a finger in her direction.
"No, no, no. C'mon now, sweetpea. I can read it on your face. You get the same look as your mother. Your nose wrinkles," Johnny said.
He paused and took a long swig from the bottle.
"Whoa. Go easy, dad," Alex said.
Johnny waved her off.
"I'm already on the floor."
"Not tonight, dad. Please," Alex said as she dropped another bit of glass in the bin.
Johnny set the bottle aside.
"There is something," he said knowingly.
Alex stopped and sat back on the floor across from her father. Like his daughter, Johnny had been windowed young. Not quite as young as Alex—but far too soon.
He never remarried.
Of all her family, Alex thought her father would be the person most capable of understanding the complexity of that loss.
"Tell your old man?" Johnny prompted.
Alex took a breath. She dropped her gaze to the old linoleum floor. She traced the pattern with her finger, running it along a ripped spot. The same mark had been on the floor since 1971.
"Well, erm… we caught the guy that shot Detective Quinn. And it turns out that… well, the man we thought murdered Joe was actually innocent," Alex shared.
"That's awful," Johnny said.
Alex nodded in agreement.
"Yeah. It is."
By 8:30 that night, Johnny Eames was starting to wind down. He was half-asleep in front of the television set with a beer.
Alex shut off the sink and dried her hands. She put the leftovers in the fridge and then made her way down to fetch the last of the clean laundry.
Johnny stopped his daughter as she passed by with the basket on her hip.
"You shouldn't be doing that," he said. "I can—"
"It's fine, dad," Alex replied.
She tried to minimise the trips he took up and down stairs. Johnny's joints were feeble enough sober.
"I mean, you should be at home doing that. With a husband," Johnny said.
Eames whipped around and pursed her lips.
"Dad, not tonight? Okay?"
"I worry about you out there all alone in that house," Johnny went on.
It was the same story every week.
"I can take care of myself. I've got a job, dad. A good one," Eames said.
"But no grandchildren," Johnny said with an air of disappointment.
Alex bit her tongue.
"I'm just gonna fold these upstairs," Alex said.
It was late by the time Bobby got home to Brooklyn.
He stayed at 1PP for a time, pouring through other pending case files to try and distract his mind. When that didn't work, Bobby decided to take a walk around Manhattan to clear his head.
He caught the train home. It was after midnight by the time he reached his block.
Bobby stopped at a nearby all-hours shop on the way and picked up a few groceries. Bobby wasn't feeling great about the day. Hell, it had been an awful week.
Goren was still on a tight budget, but he decided to splurge and treat himself to a decent homecooked meal.
Bobby loved to cook. He lived to experiment with flavour and texture. Preparing dinner was just the thing to take his mind off the world for a while.
Bobby rounded the corner and stopped.
He surveyed the line of men standing between Bobby and his building. There were at least a dozen of them with standard-issue batons in hand.
Including Detective Copa.
"Hello, Detective," Copa said.