Author's Note: Thank you for all your support on this story.
We're shifting into a new arc.
The title of this chapter is intended as a double-entendre playing on 'chum' in the sense of a friend and its use as bait to draw in predatory fish.
The events of Smile serve as a backdrop as we explore the deterioration of Alex & Bobby's partnership and the erosion of trust that characterised much of S7.
The next few chapters also deal with the aftermath of Amends. The final threads begin to fall into place as that trial works its way through the criminal justice system. (It does take time for that to come full circle.)
You'll notice I massaged the plot a bit from Smile to better facilitate this retelling.
It worked re: the plot to drop in the bits about Bernstein and I couldn't resist adding a West Side Story/Rita Moreno Easter egg.
Content Warnings
Discussion of: Trauma, physical injury, strong language, pregnancy, abortion, miscarriage/loss, violence.
Scenes containing: Substance use, grief/loss, sex.
Bobby stared at the stars overhead. They were so bright. He blinked, his vision blurred from the intensity.
It took him a full three minutes to realise he was staring at a streetlamp and not stars.
Bobby could taste the blood in his mouth.
Hello, Detective.
That was the last thing Bobby could recall before someone—of Copa's lackeys—delivered a hard blow to the back of his knees.
It was followed a moment later by a nightstick at the nape of his neck.
Bobby's ears were still ringing from the beating.
He could stand up. Bobby was sure of that. His head felt too woozy to safely try and climb four flights of stairs.
His grocery haul was splayed across the pavement. The bag was ripped. The oranges had rolled away. His box of eggs was ruined. One of Copa's friends had seen to smashing them with his boot.
Bobby was just grateful it wasn't his head they'd smashed open on the curb.
His head lolled to the side. He could just make out a small dark brick on the pavement. As it came into focus, Bobby realised it was his mobile.
It slipped from his pocket during the ensuing scuffle. Copa had kicked it out of reach.
Bobby managed to roll onto his stomach. He immediately regretted it—but he had to do it. He fought to stay conscious as he crawled toward his mobile, swallowing down the pain in his side.
You piece of scum. Copa snarled as he kicked Bobby's ribs. You think you're so fucking smart, don't you?
Bobby wasn't sure how long it had lasted. At some point, he stopped trying to talk them down and simply gave himself over to the beating.
So, this is how it ends.
Bobby recalled thinking he was going to die at the hands of a gang of disgruntled NYPD officers, men that held onto the grudge of the Quinn investigation.
The one thing Bobby couldn't figure out was why it had taken so long for him to a get beating like that. It was a long time coming.
At last, Bobby's fingers found his phone.
He coughed and winced in pain. Bobby's voice was thick from all the blood and his busted nose.
"I'm sorry to call so… so late," Bobby began. "I… I need you. I need you to come."
Bobby heard a vehicle slow to a stop. A moment later, the door opened and shut. There were footfalls on the pavement.
"You look like hell."
Mike Logan bent down next to Bobby and slipped his arm underneath to support his weight.
"Here we go," Mike said, guiding Bobby to sit up.
"Wait, wait, wait."
Bobby closed his eyes and swayed. He needed a moment to adjust.
"Who'd you piss off this time?" Logan asked.
"Don't ask."
As soon as Bobby felt he could safely move, Logan helped haul him to his feet.
"Whoa, easy," Logan said.
He caught Bobby before he fell—not an easy task given his size.
"We need to get you to a hospital," Logan insisted.
Bobby shook his head.
"No, no. I'm fine. I just need to get upstairs and clean myself up."
"You've got a head wound. I'm pretty sure your ribs are broken," Logan protested.
Bobby wouldn't hear it. He couldn't afford any more medical bills—especially not an ER charge. Benefits for municipal employees still carried considerable cost.
"Look, I've pulled bodies out of the river that look better than you do right now," Logan said.
"I'm fine," Bobby said.
He paused to spit out a hunk of blood onto the pavement.
"I know a place, okay? All-night service. No questions asked," Logan urged.
Logan got Bobby situated in the passenger seat. He snagged the bag of frozen peas from the sidewalk and put it on the back of Goren's neck.
"Here."
Bobby groaned in relief.
Bobby drifted in and out as they drove along. The streetlamps and dark sheen atop the water blurred into one endless stream of scenery.
"Where is this place? Philly?" Goren asked.
It felt like they'd been driving for ages.
"Almost there. Hang in there, buddy," Logan said.
"Is that alright?"
Bobby barely registered as the nurse began to stitch up the back of his neck. There was a deep gash along his hairline.
"I'm fine," Goren said.
The nurse tied off the suture and then moved around to the front of the table. She gently lifted the bag of frozen peas away to get a clear look at Goren's face. She hissed.
"Some fall, huh?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"Bobby took a nasty fall off his treadmill," Logan said, covering for Goren.
Logan still had no idea what occurred—but he had an inkling of what led to the beating.
"You don't have to lie to me, Mike," the nurse shot back.
She glanced back over her shoulder to the corner of the room where Mike Logan was hunched in the shadows, leaning against the wall.
"Right. Sorry, Gina," Mike apologised.
Gina.
Now Bobby recognised her.
Gina Lowe.
She'd been a nurse at Brooklyn Fed when they busted open the case involving the unauthorised torture of secret prisoners.
Gina and Mike had drifted apart after that incident. It was harder to maintain a relationship when Mike moved back to Major Case. But they were still on friendly terms—friendly enough for a late-night medical call.
"I'll square it up with you," Mike said.
Gina waved him off and flashed Mike a wry grin.
"It's only a few sutures. I'm just glad it's not your face busted for a change."
Gina frowned as she felt the bag of peas.
"I'm just gonna go swap this out for a cold compress," she said, leaving Mike and Bobby alone.
She returned a moment later and Bobby hissed as she applied the icy compress to the wound above his eye. Copa had landed a kick there with his boot. It was a miracle Bobby hadn't sustained a more serious head injury.
"You really ought to see a doctor," Gina advised.
She'd done what she could to patch Bobby up. She was positive he had a concussion and concerned there could be more serious wounds left unseen. Gina couldn't offer a full diagnosis or treatment from a kitchen table.
"Promise me that you'll get your head looked at? And these ribs, eh?" Gina asked, flashing Bobby a wan smile.
"Yeah. Thanks," Goren said.
On the way out, Gina caught Mike's arm. She was worried Goren would ignore her medical advice. She knew the look. She'd seen it in dozens of patients that feared the bill more than the possibility of complications or death.
"If you don't drive him to hospital—I get it. But he shouldn't be left alone right now. Keep him awake, alright?" she cautioned.
Logan climbed into the driver's side of his SUV. He quietly shut the car door.
"Erm… we're not far from Ocean Breeze. It's in network," Logan said.
He was no stranger to the trauma centre.
Goren dismissed this.
"No. Thanks. If you could erm… if you could just take me home."
"I know Gina's not a doctor, but she knows her stuff. In my experience, it's best to trust her," Mike advised.
Bobby managed a smile.
"I'm fine. Really. I just need to get home and rest," Bobby said.
Logan knew enough to understand when someone was trying to cover. Mike turned the key in the ignition, but did not pull away.
"Why don't we just start out and you can decide when we get there?" Logan suggested.
"No, really. I'm fine," Bobby insisted.
Logan threw the vehicle into park and turned to Goren.
"What's really going on? You worried somebody's gonna ask questions?"
Logan still didn't know why or how Bobby's injuries had occurred. He had his suspicions only.
"It's you and me, Goren. We know what to say. You want to keep it on the DL, we can do that. You want to press charges—I'll have your back," Logan assured him.
Bobby just shook his head.
"It was a long time coming," Goren said, resigned.
He wasn't in the mood to gear up for a fight against Copa and the NYPD. He didn't want to sail into that headwind. Bobby wouldn't put it past the Chief of D's to pin a medal on Copa for the beatdown.
"Okay. You can punish yourself all you want—you still need a doctor," Logan pressed.
"Look, I'm still underwater. I got a lot of bills yet from my mum's end-of-life care. There's medical debt and funeral costs. She co-signed a car loan—"
Thanks for that one, Frank!
"I just… I really can't take another medical bill right now," Bobby confessed.
He just wanted to give up. Even the damn twenty bucks he spent to splurge on groceries was gone—shattered on the pavement along with his sense of self-worth.
Logan didn't offer platitudes. He didn't chastise Goren or give him some false, half-hearted assumption about 'working it out.'
Mike Logan knew it wasn't that easy.
And Bobby Goren had already had his fill of negotiating with hospitals, clinics, banks, and debt collectors.
Logan nodded.
"Alright, you slipped on your treadmill," Logan said.
He threw the SUV into gear and pulled out onto the road. Bobby relaxed as the Verrazzano came into sight. He rested his head against the windowpane and stared down at the glossy, black water as they passed over the Narrows.
Mike Logan cracked open a can of soda and handed it to Bobby.
"Thanks."
Logan stepped away. He returned a moment later and set two plates down on the coffee table—sliding one across to Bobby.
Bobby was embarrassed.
He was a cultured man of the world with a refined palate and appreciation for a good Barbaresco. Before his life became an endless spiral of medical debt, Goren was part of a group of like-minded intellectuals that hosted weekly salons to share food, wine, and literary discourse.
Bobby was an accomplished Detective too. He had a series of commendations—both from the NYPD and the U.S. Army.
Now at forty-six, the best he could offer a guest in his home was a cheap bologna sandwich. It felt like he was twenty-years old all over again.
It was humiliating.
"So erm—"
Logan cleared his throat as he searched for a topic of conversation. Bobby set his plate down. He glanced around the room and laughed nervously.
"You probably didn't think I lived like this," Goren remarked.
Mike shrugged in response, signalling he didn't have an opinion on the matter.
Bobby shifted uncomfortably. He scratched his eyebrow.
"It's erm… well, I—"
Bobby trailed off and made a face.
"Goren, you don't have to explain. You should see my place," Logan said.
"You're erm… you're saying that to make me feel better," Goren pointed out.
Logan gestured wildly as he talked with his hands.
"I grew up in a two-bedroom walk-up on the Lower East Side with a brother and two sisters," Logan shot back.
Logan leaned back and took a bite of his sandwich, chewing for a moment as they both stared out at the city skyline.
"My only beef is that you don't own a television," Logan quipped. "But then again—"
He paused and scanned the room. Nearly every available inch of space on the walls was full of shelves and books.
"I suppose when you read this much you don't have a need. But I thought even you would still need to get that fix you can only get from watching the Mets lose again every once in a while."
That was enough to earn a smile from Goren.
"The real tragedy is—I actually do enjoy watching a game. I'm just happy to let everyone think I don't own a telly because I'm an intellectual snob. It's easier than having to admit I sold it because I needed the cash," Bobby confessed.
Logan eyed Bobby over the rim of his soda can.
"Why don't you quit?"
The question was so sudden that it took Goren off guard.
"I'm not angling for your job," Logan assured him. "I just mean, you're a brilliant profiler. You could make a lot of money—consulting, teaching, writing. Guys like me? We're lucky to make Detective. But you? You don't need the grind."
Bobby had pondered that very question before. He quickly dashed the idea—giving Logan a line about how he moved back to Brooklyn because he wanted to care for his mother and fell into his work at the NYPD.
"I get that. But with all due respect, your mother's gone now. Your bills will still be there whether you're punching a check from the city or sitting in one of those cushy consulting gigs," Logan pointed out.
Bobby's mouth went dry.
The very thought of leaving Major Case was enough to put him off his food. Worst of all, Bobby knew Logan was right. There was no reason for him to stay—not with his skills.
Or his debt.
Bobby had isolated nearly everyone in his life. His old friends in Brooklyn had dropped away. He didn't have the money to keep up with his pals in the artsy, intellectual community he'd once enjoyed.
His staunch political opinions had isolated most of his old Army buddies after Bobby spoke out against the so-called 'War on Terror.'
He didn't even have Eames anymore.
And he wouldn't if he left Major Case.
"It's erm… well, it's familiar," Bobby settled on, struggling for an answer.
Familiar.
Bobby cringed.
It seemed so callous to reduce what Eames meant to him as 'familiar.' She wasn't familiar. Or ordinary. Or pedestrian. Or any of the other backhanded compliments Nichole Wallace had hurled in an attempt to drive a wedge between them.
Logan could tell Goren was lost in thought.
"Why don't I grab another cold compress?" Logan said.
He didn't wait for a response. He got up and went straight to the freezer. Logan glanced around the kitchen in search of a clean flannel. The only one in sight was sitting in the sink—damp and mildewy.
"Towels?" Logan asked.
Bobby grimaced. He hadn't done washing in a week.
"I'll get one," Goren said.
"No, no. Sit back down. I've got it. Just tell me where."
"There's some clean t-shirts. Down the corridor. Left. Top drawer."
Logan followed the dark corridor to Bobby's bedroom. He easily found the wardrobe and the drawer in question. Logan reached for the first shirt on top.
He began to wrap the compress and paused.
Logan set the compress down and held the shirt up for inspection. It was a grey woman's tee. Small (according to the tag).
Logan quickly glanced back at the open drawer. The rest of the shirts appeared to be standard undershirts for a big and tall man.
Logan put the shirt back into the drawer and grabbed a different one instead. He didn't want to add another blow to Goren's self-esteem.
What Logan didn't know was that lone shirt was the only part of Alex Eames left in Goren's life. They had never shared the kind of relationship that included leaving personal effects with one another. There was no extra toothbrush or spare suit in the closet.
But Eames had left the shirt when she was in a rush one morning. She never asked about it and Bobby didn't have the heart to part with it.
"Here we go," Logan said as he handed Goren the fresh cold compress.
"Thanks," Bobby replied.
He brought it to his eye and sighed with relief.
"Look, erm… I'm really glad you called me. Truly. And I like this, kicking back, talking," Logan prefaced.
He didn't want Bobby to think he was an inconvenience.
"If you need to go—"
"No, no," Logan assured him. "I'm just concerned. I'm worried about you. I'd like to think I can call you a friend, Bobby."
He meant it. Every word.
"I'm just wondering if there's a reason you called me and not Detective Eames?"
And there it was.
The very question Bobby had dreaded all night.
"Like I said, I don't mind. I'm just concerned," Logan said.
Bobby tried to play it off.
"You think she could have lifted me off that pavement? Don't get me wrong—she's stronger than she looks. But I'm a big boy," Bobby joked.
"Right," Logan replied sceptically. "Do you want me to call her now? Let her know you're alright?"
Bobby dismissed the idea—asserting he was fine and didn't want to bother her.
"What's going on between you two?" Logan asked directly.
Goren bristled.
"What? No… nothing. Nothing!"
He was always prickly about that question.
"She's my partner. You… you think I would hit on her? She's a professional! She's someone I respect. She's not—"
"Easy," Logan interjected in a smooth voice.
Goren had jumped a little too quickly to seem genuine in his denial.
"It's none of my business what you are or aren't outside of work. I'm talking about as partners. What's up with you two lately? There's tension," Logan explained.
Bobby felt like a fool for rushing to such heated denial.
"It's been a tough case. Now it's in your lap. I'm sure you've read the file. You know it's personal for Eames," Bobby said.
All of that was true.
"She doesn't need to worry about me right now," Bobby said.
"Yeah. You're probably right—right now," Logan said.
He leaned forward and clasped his hands together.
"Bobby, this has been going on a lot longer than the last couple of days. This started before this case."
Logan stared knowingly at Goren.
Logan had seen the worry on Eames's face when she placed another unanswered call. He heard the concern she tried to hide whenever someone questioned Goren's return. He'd witnessed Eames push back against temporary partners and rumours about Goren being replaced.
Logan heard the fear in the timbre of her voice when it was late, and Eames took advantage of the abandoned squad room to leave another voicemail for her absentee partner.
And Logan recognised it for what it was because he'd seen the same fear in Robert Goren during Eames's abduction.
Yes, Mike Logan had watched it all unfold.
As Bobby stared back at Logan, he considered that maybe it was time to finally open up, to tell one person just how lucky he was to have a partner like Eames.
And how horrible it felt to know that he could never truly love her the way she deserved.
"She brings out the best in you, you know?" Logan added.
"Oh, I know," Bobby agreed.
There was no denying that. Eames was like a beacon that kept him sailing steady, kept his course true.
And without her…
"She deserves a lot better than me," Bobby said.
"She told you that?"
Bobby chuckled.
"No. She would never say that," Bobby replied.
"So, what's the hangup?" Logan pressed.
Mike Logan had a way of cutting to the heart of the matter.
"You… you know her. She's a better Detective than I am. She's got a good heart. She's clever. She's beautiful."
Bobby stopped himself.
"I don't mean like that. I-I-I mean she is," he stammered. "She's so lovely. But I mean as a person. She's truly a… a beautiful person."
Bobby rested his hand over his heart. He frowned. His dark eyes were clouded, belying just how conflicted he felt.
"She deserves to find happiness."
Bobby's comment hung in the air for a moment.
"And… and you know me. I'm grating and neurotic. I'm a thorn in the side of anyone unfortunate enough to spend more than five minutes in my presence."
"You've got your quirks. We all do," Logan replied.
Bobby shook his head.
"No, no, no. I'm dead weight. She should have cut that rope a long time ago and let me fall away," Bobby remarked.
Logan opened his mouth to refute that notion, but Bobby put up a hand to stop him.
"Please, spare me the pep talk. That's not self-pity. It's just practical," Bobby said.
Logan sat with that for a moment. Slowly, the corner of his mouth began to curve upward.
"I'm sure it is funny," Bobby said, anticipating his response. "I've heard all the jokes. Everyone at 1PP knows it. Goren's on a downward spiral and I'm taking Eames with me."
"Maybe," Logan acknowledged. "But that's not uh…"
He trailed off and rocked his head from side-to-side.
"What?" Bobby demanded.
"You."
Logan laughed and shook his head.
"The way you gush about your partner—"
"No," Bobby interjected. "Just… just stop."
"Bobby, I'm not prying. I'm not saying your feelings are unprofessional," Logan insisted. "I don't need to know. But whatever there is or isn't between you—there's a bond. You care about her. She cares about you and—"
"She shouldn't, alright?"
The comment came out harsher than intended. And now that the floodgate was open, Bobby's pent-up grief and anger spilled over in a fury of emotion.
He leapt up from his chair and began to hobble around the room in an attempt to pace like he did whenever he was worked up. Goren was rambling, ranting about things Logan could only infer.
"She doesn't understand. She had no clue what she's getting into. What's… what's waiting if she stays in this decaying tragedy of a shipwreck!"
Goren paused and thrust his arm out, struggling to put words to his mental descent.
"She should move on. Should have done so a long time ago. But she won't. I know she won't. That's just who she is," Bobby continued.
He stopped whipped around, staring at Logan.
"She never remarried, you know? She couldn't. She still loves him. And… and that's fine. I get it. Who wouldn't?"
Bobby started to pace again, hobbling on the carpet. Logan scowled as he observed Goren shuffle about.
"Why don't you sit down?"
Goren ignored him.
"She had a… a perfectly—"
Bobby exhaled heavily as he searched for the right word. It was as if Bobby was uncomfortable admitting it aloud.
Because saying it made it real.
"Perfect."
Bobby dropped his arms. His shoulders slumped.
"He was… well, you've seen the file. And me? How the hell am I supposed to stack up against that?"
Columbia educated. Heart of gold. Handsome to boot.
"He's All-Around American. Shoulders like—" Bobby threw his arms out and growled. "Ran the New York City Marathon, you know? A diver. Certified pilot. And here I am… fucking certifiable."
Goren was on a roll. He was too far gone to try and stop.
"And me? I'm the whack job. Broody and bitter. He could have given her a home and kids and a lifetime of love. And the only thing she's got to look forward to with me is a dingy life, dusty books."
Bobby kicked over a stack of file folders.
"Medical debt. I'll probably get fired if I don't drink myself into the grave first. Oh ho! It's fucking hell in two and half rooms here," Bobby raved.
Logan didn't react. He gave Goren the space to go. Logan figured it was probably healthy for Goren to get some of that off his chest.
"And thank God she likes to drive—and I'm happy to let her. Because between the booze and smokes and the damn bologna, I… I don't think my heart could take it," Bobby confessed with a bitter laugh.
Or the knees.
"But sooner or later, she's gonna… she's gonna want that. Who doesn't want to be held and loved? To let go for a bit while you let the person you love take care of you?"
A pained expression crossed Bobby's face. His voice softened.
"I just… I just thought one last time. Get it out of my system, you know? And… and she could go on thinking I was just another brooding, emotionally unavailable arse."
That had been the plan.
Why, oh why did she have to say she loved me?
Bobby stopped himself before he disclosed that little detail. It didn't matter—Logan could draw his own conclusions.
Mike sat forward and scratched his hairline.
"If you're partners and you like working together, her dead husband shouldn't matter," Logan pointed out.
He wasn't trying to one-up Bobby or catch him out. He was simply pointing out the obvious.
"And if this isn't about work, don't you think you should let Eames make the decision about what she does or doesn't want?" Logan pressed.
Goren scoffed.
"Oh, no, no, no. She doesn't know what she's getting into. She doesn't understand I'm just trying to protect her," Bobby protested.
Logan was sceptical.
"Her or you? Eames can take care of herself."
Bobby shook his finger.
"Oh, no. Not from this. Not… not this time. My father was an awful man."
Logan shot him a look.
"Goren, you're smart enough to know we're not defined by the sins of our fathers," Logan said.
Bobby collapsed back into his armchair, the steam now gone from his outburst.
"Mike, I—"
"Not a word. To anyone. This is just between us," Mike promised.
Two Days Later | Major Case Squad | One Police Plaza
Eames beat Goren to work for a change. She was already at her desk when Bobby lumbered into the bullpen.
She took note of his stiff posture as Goren eased himself into his chair.
After forty-eight hours, the injuries had settled into deep black and purple bruising and swollen, red flesh where he'd sustained cuts.
"What happened?" Eames asked.
"Good morning to you too," Bobby replied.
Eames's face soured.
Bobby opened his mouth to explain. Before he could offer up his rehearsed lie, Captain Ross stepped into view.
"Nice to have you back, Detective. Did you fall off a building?" Ross questioned.
"A treadmill," Goren replied without elaboration.
Ross blinked.
"Was it four stories up?"
Goren managed a smile.
"I got lost in a book," he lied.
Ross nodded, not buying a word of it.
"Right, well. As long as you're feeling alright, you two are needed in Harlem," Ross said.
Goren and Eames threw on their jackets as Ross filled them in on the details.
As soon as they were on the lift, Alex turned to Goren.
"You sold your treadmill last year," Eames pointed out.
Bobby said nothing in response as he passed Eames the keys to a departmental SUV. Eames got the message.
"Right," she said.
Bobby leaned over to examine the deceased dentist—still in his chair—while Eames interviewed the assistant.
"Doctor Goldman was headed for his home in West Hampton. He went every Friday," the assistant said.
"This clinic was that successful?" Eames questioned, surprised given its location.
The assistant shook her head.
"No. That would be his Park Avenue clinic. But his heart was here. He opened this place with his own money. It wasn't about profit. Doctor Goldman just wanted to help," she explained.
Their quest for answers led them to the home of a recently deceased teen. At first, they were under the impression that the dentist 'everyone loved' was, in fact, a predator.
At least that's what Toby Borden's mother believed.
Eames and Goren dropped by her flat to just question Mrs Borden about Toby's death. They never anticipated it would spiral into a hostage situation.
Bobby talked Mrs Borden down with his easy baritone and understanding of human behaviour. Eames was able to whisk Toby's young sister to safety the moment Mrs Borden dropped the knife.
It was a testament to just how great Eames and Goren were a team. They successfully diverted a tragedy—even when they weren't speaking to one another.
The predator angle was a bust. A terrible, tragic misunderstanding compounded by the impoverished circumstances of Doctor Goldman's patients and a medical system built on the very institutional prejudices that failed to catch the wider issue of counterfeit product.
Their culprit was SnoMint.
Well, someone impersonating SnoMint.
It was a popular brand of mouthwash manufactured by Schorr Labs—a leading pharmaceutical company.
Eames and Goren feared a repeat of the Necedrol murders when a lone woman had poisoned people at random to cover the murder of her husband with an over-the-counter pain reliever.
Everyone was worried they had another poisoner on their hands. The motive mattered not—the public was at risk.
Major Case | One Police Plaza
Eames stood near the door. Goren sat in his usual spot in the far corner, his binder spread across his knees as he scratched notes from the meeting.
Captain Ross was behind his desk.
Bing Schorr, the CEO of Schorr Labs was present along with two representatives from the Food and Drug Administration. Ross had phoned them in the moment the ME detected dangerous levels of Diethylene glycol, or D.E.G., in bottles of SnoMint.
"I've contacted our labs. There's no evidence of any D.E.G. in our SnoMint supply," Schorr informed them.
"That's funny because our lab found levels of 4% in your mouthwash," Eames shot back.
Mr Schorr bristled.
"That's not possible," he asserted.
Bobby's gaze fell on the box of SnoMint recovered from Doctor Goldman's clinic. He rose from his seat and rummaged through the bottles as Eames went toe-to-toe with Mr Schorr over corporate responsibility.
"Erm… Mr Schorr? How many mountain peaks on your logo?" Goren asked, interrupting the debate.
Bobby held up one of the bottles for inspection. Mr Schorr confirmed it was indeed a counterfeit.
"That proves it. We're the real victims here," Schorr said.
Eames rolled her eyes.
A child and a dentist were dead. Two more children that drank the SnoMint were hospitalised—and there were likely more they didn't know about.
Mr Palin, the inept supervisor at the FDA was quick to assure the Detectives that they would take over the investigation from there.
"Good work. This is in our wheelhouse now. We'll take over from here," Palin announced.
Goren pressed for details. He wanted to know exactly what the FDA was planning to do in order to protect the public.
"You need to issue a recall," Goren urged.
"If we determine that's necessary," Palin replied.
Goren baulked. Eames beat him to the pushback.
"Two people are dead, Mr Palin. How many more children need to die before you get this off the streets?" she asked.
"We can usually track and trace, pinpoint the source, and shut it down before the need to cause a public panic. You should know, these kinds of scares are very harmful to our partners in the pharmaceutical industry," Palin argued.
Eames scoffed. She crossed her arms as she eyed Palin.
"Partners? You're supposed to be the regulatory agency that, you know… regulates these things."
Schorr stepped in to intervene.
"Marty knows he has a responsibility to protect the public. With all due respect, Detective, this isn't really your expertise," Schorr said.
All of sudden, Mr Palin's second-in-command caught Goren's eye. She passed Bobby her business card.
"Please keep us informed if there's any news about those boys in hospital," she said.
Bobby skimmed her business card.
"Leslie Le Zard," he read aloud.
"Leslie is my number two," Palin said brightly.
Leslie kept her eyes on Goren. Bobby recognised the look. He had seen it in the eyes of hundreds of witnesses before—she knew something. And she was pleading for the opportunity to speak alone.
"I erm… I… I will," Goren promised.
As the day wore on, Eames decided to follow up on a hunch about Marty Palin and Mr Schorr. As she expected, the two went way back.
Meanwhile, Goren subtly reached out to Miss Le Zard. He left a message that morning under the guise that he'd forgotten to give her his contact information.
As soon as Bobby was off the phone, Eames looked up from her computer.
"Those guys? Schorr and Palin? Turns out they're old frat buddies," Eames said.
Bobby listened, occasionally jotting down a note, as Eames filled him in on the details.
"I checked with a friend at city hall that's in the Department of Health. Usually, the FDA loops them in anytime there's a big investigation. They haven't heard anything about SnoMint," Eames reported.
Bobby leaned back at his desk and sighed. He expected as much.
Goren glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost 1:00.
"I'm going to take lunch. It's Thursday. That diner by Matelli's has cherry pie today," Bobby offered, hoping to entice his partner to lunch.
Eames produced a lunch bag from under her desk.
"No thanks. I packed mine today. Have fun."
Without another word, Eames got up and left to eat on her own in the canteen.
More than a week later, there was still no recall.
Goren's calls to the FDA went unanswered. Eames tried leaning on her contacts at the Department of Health—but they had little leverage. When that failed, ME Rodgers stepped in to try and put some pressure on for action.
Major Case had tracked eleven new cases of poisoning from the mouthwash. Three more children had died.
"I've spoke to the Mayor's office. They're going to urge Schorr labs and the FDA to go public. If they don't, there'll be a statement from the NYPD tomorrow," Ross shared.
Goren bristled.
"Tomorrow. Right. I guess we'll have to hope kids don't use their mouthwash tonight," he remarked.
"The Mayor wants to give Schorr labs a chance to do the right thing and they're hesitant about opening a municipal v. federal can of worms by going after the FDA," Ross explained.
A look passed between Goren and Eames.
"Sure. What's a couple of dead kids in Harlem? No need to cause a panic that might hurt Schorr's shareholders," Eames said.
Ross sighed.
"I'm with you. I want to bring these bastards down," Ross assured them. "Any word from your contact at the FDA?"
He looked to Detective Goren.
Bobby shook his head. He'd faithfully relayed the information about the hospitalised children to Miss Le Zard. Goren had heard nothing in response.
"I think she knows something," Goren said.
"Well, if you get the chance, remind her there are whistle-blower protections," Ross said.
When Goren and Eames returned to their desks, they found Ron Carver waiting.
"Mr Carver," Goren said, nodding to the ADA.
"Detectives," Carver said.
He turned his attention to Eames.
"I was wondering if we could speak in private?" Carver said.
Eames tensed.
"Let me guess, you've come to tell me the DA's office is dropping all charges against Manny Beltran?"
"No," Carver replied.
His voice was slow, indicating there was bad news to follow.
"What happened?" Eames inquired.
Carver sighed.
"The case has been assigned to Judge Vinello. I was informed this afternoon that he's set a date for preliminary proceedings," Carver said.
Eames sat down at her desk.
"Oh, I see things are moving quickly then," she said with sarcastic confidence. "Ray Delgado sat in a cell for a year before the first trial. Glad to know the wheels of justice can be greased just enough for the likes of Doctor Beltran."
"Ray Delgado didn't have Danielle Melnick in his corner," Carver said.
Carver sat down on the edge of the desk.
"And to that end…"
Eames's brow furrowed.
"What?" she prompted.
"Miss Melnick has filed a flurry of preliminary motions to suppress evidence, a motion to dismiss based on circumstantial evidence—"
"He confessed!" Eames roared.
Carver fell silent.
Eames's face dropped.
"Don't tell me," she said.
"And a motion to throw out his testimony on the grounds of a failure of substantive due process," Carver shared.
Doctor Beltran had not been Mirandized prior to his confession. Nor was Doctor Beltran made aware he was a suspect. He offered his confession freely and willingly before his arrest.
"Normally, that's not an issue. There was no coercion. Plenty of witnesses. You made his rights clear when he was arrested. But—"
A pained expression crossed Carver's typically stoic face.
"Your participation has raised questions of impropriety."
Eames nodded stiffly.
"Yeah, well. The hits just keep on rolling, right?"
Carver squeezed her shoulder and promised to keep Alex in the loop on any and all developments. He assured her the full resources of the DA's office to bring her husband's murderer to justice.
As soon as Carver left, Eames dove back into her work. Bobby watched from across at his own desk.
"Alex."
It was rare for Goren to use her first name—even when they were alone. Eames could count on one hand the number of times he'd spoken it aloud in the squad room.
She glanced up and waited for him to continue.
"You didn't do anything wrong. If you want to talk about what happened—"
Eames eyed him with disdain.
They stared at each other as Eames debated how to respond. After a minute, she just shook her head and turned back to her work.
Bobby stayed late that night. He needed the work to occupy his mind.
In the end, he was glad he did.
Leslie Le Zard from the FDA called shortly after 8:00p.
"I can't talk here," she whispered into the receiver. "Meet me at the corner of 5th and Maple in Brooklyn. Tonight. One hour."
Goren knew the spot well. It was at the edge of the Greenwood Cemetery. He checked the clock and threw on his trench. It would probably take him an hour just to get back to Brooklyn.
At least it's close to home.
Bobby was late. Leslie Le Zard beat him to the meeting spot.
It was a cold night. The chill of winter still clung to the April air. Bobby was glad he'd worn his heavier coat that morning.
Miss Le Zard was bundled up, waiting under a streetlamp by a bench in the cemetery. As he approached, Bobby felt as if he were stepping into the pages of a cold war spy novel.
It was a bit cloak and dagger.
But it only added to the excitement. Goren lived for the chase. This meeting was both a welcome break in the investigation and a much-needed distraction.
"His name is Jim Kettle. He's my best field inspector," Le Zard shared as she handed over a manilla folder.
Bobby flipped open the folder and skimmed the contents. There was a file on Kettle and a number of printouts—including key emails between Kettle, Le Zard, Marty Palin, and Jim Schorr.
"Kettle sent this to Marty a couple of days before you called us in on the counterfeit SnoMint. I've been trying to reach him all day. I'm really worried. It's not like Jim to go off the grid," Le Zard said.
A nagging voice in the back of Goren's brain pressed him to ask an obvious question.
"Why are you giving me this?"
Le Zard looked conflicted.
"I didn't choose a career in public service to protect corporations or men like Jim Schorr. Marty promised they would get this off the streets. He hasn't lifted a finger," Le Zard said.
The next morning, Eames arrived at 1PP early. Goren was already there at his desk, pouring over a stack of paperwork.
"Keep your coat on," he said.
Goren was up in a flash. His injuries weren't enough to slow him down—not when he was chasing a lead.
"Where are we going?" Eames questioned.
"To catch an inspector," Bobby replied cryptically.
Eames had to walk double quick to keep pace with her partner.
Bobby was like a giddy child as he gushed about the details on the drive across town. Miss Le Zard had provided a chain of emails—one that was damning for the likes of Palin and Schorr. It painted a pretty clear picture of two chummy executives working to minimise the financial fallout from the phony mouthwash.
Alex was unusually quiet.
"And in this one here, Kettle details that he found six additional boxes of tainted product at a bodega in Harlem," Bobby said, reading aloud.
He paused.
"You alright? You haven't said a word since we got in the car," Goren asked.
"I'm fine," Eames replied.
Goren glanced over at his partner.
"I'm fine," Eames repeated emphatically. "I'm just catching up. A lot of information to process. Per usual, you're ten steps ahead of me."
Bobby felt a pang of regret.
"Well, I erm… I got this information late last night. I didn't want to bother you at home."
It was a pathetic excuse. Before their fallout, Bobby wouldn't have thought twice about calling Eames at home. He'd never sat on a hot lead before.
Eames was hurt.
Goren didn't trust her enough to open up about his personal life. Now, it seemed that he couldn't trust her to share in their professional responsibilities either.
"Don't slow down on my account," Eames said.
She gestured, urging Goren to continue with the informal briefing. Goren cleared his throat.
"Right. It looks like Kettle sent a follow-up three days ago."
FDA New York Headquarters | Brooklyn
Miss Le Zard slipped into the seat at her desk. Her face was blank as she absorbed the news of his death.
"The ME has yet to determine a cause of death," Goren said.
Leslie shook her head, dazed.
"I just… I can't believe it."
She covered her mouth with her hand.
"I'm sorry," Bobby said.
He fell silent, giving Leslie a moment to recover from the shock.
"I should have come to you sooner," she said.
Leslie sniffled. Tears pricked at the corner of her eyes.
"This is all my fault."
"It's the fault of whoever killed Jim Kettle, Miss Le Zard. Of whoever sought to cover this up," Bobby said.
Suddenly, her eyes went wide.
"You don't think Marty could have…"
She trailed off, too stunned by the thought to even finish her sentence.
"No. He couldn't. Marty may be inept. And he'd do anything for Jim Schorr. But he's not a killer," Leslie insisted.
Goren wasn't sure if she was trying to convince him or herself. He wasn't surprised by her reaction. It was common when one found out a colleague or neighbour was capable of such violence.
"I just can't believe it," Leslie repeated.
An assistant knocked to inform Leslie that Mr Palin was waiting to start a meeting.
"I'll be right there," Leslie said.
She stood and thumbed away her tears, pausing to smooth the front of her red suit.
Bobby fished for a handkerchief from his suit.
"Here," he said, offering it to Leslie.
"Thank you."
She reached for Bobby's hand and gave it a warm squeeze.
"Jim has a family. A daughter. Detective, please call me if you find anything."
Goren arrived back at 1PP just as Eames was getting off the phone. She had it sandwiched between her ear and her shoulder as she wrote down notes.
"Yes… right… uh huh… understood."
Eames hung the phone back on the receiver.
"You'll never guess who just issued a recall," she said.
"Well, it's about time the FDA took action," Bobby remarked.
He shrugged off his coat and pulled out his chair.
"It wasn't the FDA," Eames said.
Bobby was about to sit down when he froze.
"Schorr Labs?"
Eames nodded.
"Word from the city is that the FDA wanted to give Schorr Labs a chance to save face publicly by making it look like they noticed the error and took action to protect the public," Eames said, noting her disapproval.
Bobby murmured a quiet 'yeah' in response. That was all he said. His mind was miles away. He stared at the lockers as he tapped his pen on the surface of the desk.
He'd just come from the FDA office. Normally, Goren and Eames tracked leads together. But as of late, they worked mostly separate from one another—like they had those first rocky months of their partnership.
Leslie Le Zard hadn't mentioned anything about a recall or the agreement to let Schorr Labs take the lead. Bobby wondered if Marty Palin (or Schorr himself) suspected her of being a whistleblower.
She may not have known had she been intentionally excluded.
Goren feared she could be in danger.
After all, someone had killed Jim Kettle to protect the secret.
Suddenly, Goren dropped his pen.
"I erm… I need to erm… make a call," he said.
He reached for the phone, dialled Leslie's extension, and counted the seconds until she answered.
Eames made herself busy while Bobby placed his urgent call.
"Not the same place. Hey erm… do you like musicals?" Bobby asked.
That caught Eames's attention.
Out of the corner of her eye, Alex watched as Goren smiled and chortled softly into the receiver. His urgent phone call for safety had relaxed into casual banter as he and Miss Le Zard discussed their mutual fondness for Leonard Bernstein.
"Yeah… yeah, this is going uh—"
Bobby chuckled and scratched his eyebrow.
"This is gonna sound wild, but I always thought my mum looked a bit like Rita Moreno," Bobby commented.
Le Zard must have said something funny in response, because Bobby laughed—and not the boisterous one he slapped on in the interrogation room or to try and set a suspect at ease.
No. It was a real, genuine laugh.
He paused to adjust the phone. His face was flushed. He looked like an adolescent boy that had just been asked to the prom. His typically surly demeanour faded and was replaced by a bashful bliss.
"Uh huh… yeah. Yeah. I'll see you then. Until tonight."
Goren hung up the phone and turned back to his notes. Amused, he hummed as he tapped his pen on the desk.
Eames wasn't jealous.
In fact, as painful as it was to admit, she would be overjoyed to see Goren find someone that could make him happy.
What bothered Alex was that Leslie Le Zard was a whistleblower tied to an active case. In Eames's opinion, that was an ethical tinderbox primed and waiting for a savvy defence attorney to blast through.
"The ME is still working to establish a time of death for Jim Kettle. Once she does, we should check if Schorr, Palin, and Le Zard have alibis," Eames said.
Bobby stopped reading and looked up.
"Why would Leslie kill Kettle? She's a whistleblower."
Eames was taken aback by his definitive tone.
"Well, erm—"
Eames frowned.
"We checked into Schorr and Palin. We never did any background check on Miss Le Zard," Eames realised aloud.
"She's a whistleblower," Goren repeated. "She's the one that brought it to our attention that something may have happened to Kettle."
"Yeah. And normally, we would investigate her too," Eames pointed out.
Bobby set his notes down and leaned in close over his desk. He cocked his head to the side as he eyed his partner.
"Why are you treating her like a suspect?" Goren asked.
"Because she is a suspect, Bobby."
"Ah ha ha ha," Goren laughed sarcastically, his head bobbing along.
Eames glared in disbelief at her partner and his newfound attitude.
"We've looked into Palin and Schorr extensively. We haven't even begun to look at her," Eames argued.
Bobby dismissed the idea outright.
"She's a whistleblower, Eames. She doesn't have motive. She's helping our investigation."
Goren's voice was patronising. He threw on his profiler hat and started off his best armchair psychological assessment of Miss Le Zard.
"She's one of the only people that knew about Kettle, the tainted mouthwash, the emails," Eames shot back.
"How do you explain her willingness to assist? Why would she turn over evidence?" Goren questioned.
Eames shrugged as she audibly exhaled.
"Gee, Bobby. I don't know. But I don't think we should just… take her word. You know as well as I do that if this is about revenge or attention or terrorising the public, that perp is going to insert themselves into the investigation. It's what they like to do," Eames said, pushing back.
Goren snorted.
"You're a profiler now?" he asked.
Eames looked as if she'd been slapped. In all their years together—including the rocky start of their partnership—Goren had never once been a condescending arse.
Not to Eames.
Eames's brow furrowed as she studied her partner.
"Did she say why she turned over evidence? Why she decided—after a week with no word—to suddenly drop this in your lap?" Eames asked.
It was a fair question.
Goren visibly bristled. He waved his hand to dismiss the idea, scooting his chair flush against the desk to prepare before he launched into a defence.
"She's a good person. A… public servant. Someone that doesn't…. care about money or prestige like these… these men like Schorr. She's not a… a pushover like Marty Palin," Bobby spat.
In a world full of liars, Bobby wanted to believe there was someone out there who was in the fight for the right reasons.
She was one public employee in a sea of bureaucracy trying to do right by the public.
It was a position Bobby knew well.
"She just wants to… to help. She did it because it's the right thing to do. She has a good heart," Bobby argued.
"Or a guilty conscience," Eames remarked.
Bobby had enough. He couldn't take Eames poking and prodding, slowly chipping away at the illusion he'd built of Leslie Le Zard. He was desperate for a distraction from the banality of his life, the crushing weight of his financial and physical circumstances, and the bitter disappointment that he couldn't be with the woman he loved.
He put Leslie Le Zard on a pedestal. And Bobby needed to believe in that to survive.
He lashed out because he was grieving.
"I know you like to pull LUDS and sift through everybody's credit card history while you make your judgements about their shopping habits or their vices," Bobby said. "I get it. You like it. You get a thrill out of being in control. It's why you like to drive, isn't it? What gets you off?"
His voice dripped with scorn.
"And because you can't enjoy anything in life, everyone else has to endure the same self-loathing, sacrificial, mundane, working-class martyrdom that is the creed of your existence."
In comes Bobby with the haymaker.
"No social life. No friends outside of work. Devoted to caring for your ageing father. Surrogate for your sister. Always on call to babysit. Perpetually alone," Bobby went on.
"You call that 'projection' don't you? Or am I just too pedestrian to use that term correctly?" Eames shot back.
Bobby chuckled.
"You… you pride yourself on… on ignorance. Like intelligence and success and… and culture are things to be looked down on!"
Out of the corner of her eye, Eames spied Logan and Wheeler at their desks. They had fallen silent, turning instead to watch the scene unfold. People were starting to stare.
"It's no wonder your mother-in-law thought you weren't good enough for her golden boy," Bobby added.
That was a low blow—even for Bobby.
He was right.
When the Dutton's of Sands Point, Long Island first learned Joe decided to waste his Sociology degree from Columbia at the NYPD Police Academy, they wrote it off as a 'phase.'
When he turned down an intern posting with the Italian Ambassador to spend the summer building a classroom in Harlem instead, they swore it couldn't last.
They revoked his trust fund when he accepted a job with the NYPD.
He'll come running back. Mrs Dutton thought.
Joe didn't.
And when the Dutton's got wind that Joe was seeing a young woman—they staged an intervention.
Mrs Dutton's initial impression of Alexandra Eames confirmed all of her preconceived assumptions about the woman she saw as nothing but a social-climbing, tawdry little bird from Inwood.
Shanty Irish scum.
She wept at the wedding, humiliated by Johnny Eames's drunkenness, their undignified traditions, and the large, loud mess of children that ran about disrupting the reception.
In a shabby VFW of all places.
Bobby had looked the Dutton's up. They hadn't lied about their ties to Albany.
Goren just shook his head and laughed as she shuffled the papers on his desk.
"I mean, the one redeeming quality you had to offer Mrs Dutton was the promise of grandchildren and you couldn't even do that right."
Bobby froze.
The words had left his mouth before even had the chance to process the ramifications of such a deeply inappropriate remark.
Eames had seen Bobby's cruelty come out before in the midst of tough investigation or when he was cornered. It came out against people like Judge Harold Garrett and Nichole Wallace.
Bobby had come up to the line before. He could be cruel when he wanted to push Eames away—she was accustomed to that. It was how Robert Goren protected himself.
But it was never personal.
Until now.
Eames pushed her chair back and rose from her desk.
"Eames," Bobby said.
Panic gripped his chest as he watched her walk away.
"Eames?"
He leapt up from his own desk and chased after her, following her out of the squad room and toward the lift.
"Eames? Eames, wait," Bobby called.
She stopped.
"There is nothing I can say to—"
Eames whipped around.
"You're right. There isn't."
Bobby's heart sank. He couldn't recall ever feeling so afraid of losing Eames—not since her abduction at the hands of Jo Gage.
"I'm going to meet Le Zard tonight. I'll erm… I'll talk to her and try to find out more about Kettle," Bobby offered, hoping Eames would accept his peace offering.
"You want to play Sam Spade, knock yourself out. I'm going to run a check on everyone in Palin's office. And Jim Kettle's coworkers. Everyone, Detective."
Eames wanted him to understand this wasn't about Le Zard. She applied the same treatment to Palin and all of the other senior staff that worked in the FDA office and the other field agents in Kettle's division.
Bobby opened his mouth to speak, but Eames cut him off with a frosty look.
"Just stop. I'll take care of it. I know it's too mundane for you," Eames said.
Without another word, she marched off to the lift. Bobby didn't protest or try to continue the argument. He just let her go.
Probably for the best.
Bobby's heated slip had succeeded in finally driving a wedge between him and Eames. There could be no hope of salvaging any personal relationship now (friendly or otherwise).
And that was what he wanted.
Well, not what he wanted but what he needed to do.
The right thing. He thought cynically.
Bobby walked back to his desk and sat down as if the whole squad room hadn't just witnessed the final implosion of the deteriorating Eames-Goren duo.
Goren checked the clock.
3:18.
Bobby fiddled with his notes. He twirled his pen in his hand. Goren reached for a rolodex of business cards he kept on file. He skimmed through the contents, tossing the ones that were no longer relevant or outdated.
When that task was finished, he checked the clock again.
3:24.
Goren flung open the bottom drawer of and slipped the case file inside. He slammed it harder than intended—loud enough to startle the bullpen.
Without a word, Goren snatched his leather binder and left.
Brooklyn Heights
Bobby dropped his head and let the hot water run over the back of his neck and down his spine.
By the time he emerged from his long shower, Bobby still didn't feel clean.
He towelled off his hair and threw the damp towel into the hamper in the corner. Bobby grumbled as he flipped through his wardrobe.
He'd packed on weight as age and stress took their toll coupled with his tightened finances. Those two things could not have collided at a more inopportune time.
Robert Goren couldn't just waltz into a store and buy off the rack. Even second-hand stores and charity shops rarely carried his size. Bobby had buy at big and tall specialty stores.
There was a time when Robert Goren prided himself on his wardrobe. His stylish tie clips, crisp pressed shirts, tailored suits, and fine leather shoes were a testament to his individuality.
It was hard to view Goren as a dotty intellectual when he dressed sharp. The colour and patterns, the accessories, it was all a way of asserting his individualism in a sea of G-men.
He'd sold off a lot of his good suits and shoes to stay afloat.
Not that they would have fit. Not anymore.
Bobby clasped his hand over his mouth and growled.
Why not? Bobby asked himself.
Logan's question from that late-night conversation got into Bobby's mind and stuck with him. He thought about it when he took stock of his bare cupboards and or whenever he caught sight of the stack of unpaid bills on the counter in the kitchen. He pondered that question as he sat behind his desk.
And the more Bobby mulled it over, the more he realised Logan was right.
He could easily make double his income working as a consultant. A career change would afford Bobby the breathing room to get out from his mountain of debt, to resume his old hobbies, to reclaim the life he'd given up in pursuit of preserving his late mother's care and comfort.
He snuck a peek at his watch.
6:03.
Charcoal and Teak Men's Boutique | Brooklyn
A squat, middle-aged man knelt down and smoothed the hem of the trousers.
"What do you think?" he prompted.
Bobby adjusted the cuff at his wrist. He turned to the side and studied his appearance in the three-sided mirror.
"I have another in blue. It would need to be altered. But I can send it to the tailor and have it back say… ten days."
"I'm sorry, Mr Chang. I need something for tonight," Bobby apologised.
Bobby had initially felt bad walking back into his old haunt after such a long absence—especially when he came pressed for time.
But Mr Chang didn't mind. He was as cheerful as ever and happy to see one of his old clients return.
For years, Robert had been a loyal customer. He'd had stopped buying his suits from Mr Chang when his mother was moved to hospice. A tailored wardrobe was one luxury Bobby couldn't afford.
Not for much longer. Bobby mused.
"You have a date," Mr Chang said knowingly.
Bobby replied with a sheepish grin.
"No, it's not a date," Bobby said.
It's not not a date either.
Major Case Squad | One Police Plaza
Alex Eames's eyes narrowed as she skimmed through the roster of registered runners for races in the area over the last year. She was checking them against Leslie Le Zard's social media profile.
It was the third race that Le Zard claimed to have completed in recent years where Eames could find no record of her ever participating. She posted photos and finish times, smiling for the camera as she proudly boasted about her blisters.
Only Eames could find nothing to back Le Zard's long list of accomplishments.
Six months earlier, Le Zard shared meal updates and pictures posed in front of the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre—but the State Department had no record she'd ever been in France.
Even the photos of her 'homemade' sourdough looked to be pinched from a food blog.
Eames's inbox pinged with an incoming message. She paused her search and clicked over to check her email.
"Well, well, well," Eames said aloud.
Alex noticed a familiar shadow on her desk.
"Where's your partner?" Ross asked.
Eames had the opportunity to bag on her partner. She was torn, a part of her longing to finally stop covering for Goren.
Instead, she fell right back into her usual routine.
"He's tracking down a lead."
Ross knew. He always knew. Ross clenched his hand into a fist and lightly rapped the surface of the desk as he chose how to respond.
"I was upstairs most of the afternoon in budget meetings. I got word there was an altercation," Ross shared.
Eames feigned innocence.
"Look, Detective. Your loyalty to your partner is admirable. I respect it. But at some point, you're going to find yourself in a situation where you have to make a choice between your partner and your career," Ross cautioned.
He wasn't angry. He was concerned.
"I'm not saying it's today. And I have nothing but respect for Detective Goren," Ross continued.
In their time together, Ross had come to appreciate Goren's unique investigative method and his commitment to the pursuit of justice.
"Just… take it from a guy that had to make that choice once—sometimes you have to take care of yourself first. That's not disloyalty, it's healthy," Ross concluded.
Eames sat perfectly still like she was waiting for Ross to finish so she might go back to her work.
"Are things alright between you two? I've sensed some tension."
Deakins had once advised Ross not to look too far under the surface when it came to Eames and Goren. Some rocks were best left undisturbed.
"Things are fine," Eames said as she got up.
She reached for her jacket and threw it on, pausing to pull her hair out from under the collar.
"I'm just heading out to catch up with Detective Goren on this lead," Eames said.
It wasn't entirely untrue.
Eames peeled out of the 1PP garage with her phone in hand.
She had no sooner turned onto the freeway when she hit the evening commute jumble of folks pouring out of the city. Traffic was at a standstill.
She flipped open her phone and hit the first number in her contacts.
Come on. Come on. Pick up.
It rang through to voicemail.
"Call me back. It's urgent."