Author's Note: Thank you for your ongoing support on this story.
Warning—this is probably one of the darkest chapters of this fic.
We see flashes of Bobby's anger sometimes on the show—in interrogations and when dealing with colleagues and family.
We see Bobby's temper flare and his extreme physical response can take the form of raising his voice or acting out physically (like tossing Rogers's lab in Frame).
I really wanted to explore Bobby's internal conflict as he grapples with his emotions. For me, Bobby's greatest fear is the loss of control, that he will do something to harm someone or himself. And that, as a truly altruistic person, that thought alone is enough to terrify him.
So, when he pushes Eames away, it's not because of misguided chivalry or sexist traditions—it's more complex than that. I see Goren as a character that struggles to accept that he is worthy of love and happiness, that he does deserve a sense of normalcy.
He's built up a barrier to protect himself because it's easier to accept his trauma if he normalises it (in the sense of 'this is fine/this is just life').
Also, I recognise that car ownership is iffy in New York. We know from the show that Bobby seems to get around without using public transport (offering to pick up Frank, driving up to Carmel Ridge, picking up Eames from the ferry). I suspect the Mustang we see in later seasons is Bobby's (though unconfirmed).
In this story, Goren owns his own personal vehicle. He just doesn't always take it to work.
Content Warnings
Discussion of: Trauma, physical injury, strong language, pregnancy, abortion, miscarriage/loss, violence, death of a child.
Scenes containing: Substance use, grief/loss, sex, body (in the ME's lab.
The Green-Wood Cemetery | Brooklyn
Bobby rubbed his hands together. The air was still crisp—especially after the sun went down.
Leonard Bernstein's gravesite sat near a Revolutionary War monument honouring the Battle of Brooklyn. It was the highest point of elevation in the whole borough.
As a child, Bobby had walked through this cemetery with his mother. The Green-Wood was the home to many famous gravesites and historical markers.
Bobby could recall how frightening the aged granite and marble slabs looked whenever the sun dipped. Bobby had only been seven when Night of the Living Dead came out. He snuck into the theatre with Frank to watch the classic flick.
It was enough to still give Bobby pause whenever he set foot in a cemetery.
Bobby waited in silence. His breath was visible whenever he exhaled. A lone jogger ran past. Even in the heart of Brooklyn, the city seemed at a distance when one was in amongst the rows of the Green-Wood.
Bobby pulled back the sleeve on his coat to check the time.
Leslie was late.
When this game of hushed, cryptic phone calls and after dark meetings had first started, Bobby was ecstatic.
But now there was every possibility that a whistleblower faced real danger. It made Bobby sick to his stomach.
Bobby heard the brush rustle behind him. Bobby's hand instinctively went for his holster. He turned and spied a lone figure step out from the shadows near a limestone mausoleum.
"I'm sorry. I didn't want to risk being followed," Leslie said.
She stepped out into the light and brushed away the debris from one the park's many wooded groves.
She slipped her arm through Bobby's.
"Walk with me, Detective."
Bobby was taken aback by her forwardness. Leslie leaned in close and dropped her voice.
"It's less suspicious if it looks like we're just out for a stroll," Leslie explained. "Otherwise, we look like strangers meeting for some sordid purpose in the dark."
"Lead on," Bobby said.
Alex grumbled and switched off the heat. The inside of the vehicle was too hot.
It had been more than an hour since she'd left 1PP. She hadn't even managed to get onto the Brooklyn Bridge yet.
There was an accident ahead. Traffic had ground to a halt. All lanes were closed. Eames didn't have an option to turn off or take another route.
At least, not yet.
She had inched along bit by bit, slowly working her way closer to an alternative route.
She'd tried to ring Goren twice with no success.
"Enough of this," Eames said.
She flipped the concealed cherries on the SUV on (along with the siren for good measure).
Alex unclipped her badge from the belt at her waist. She gripped it tight in her hand, ready to flash it to any checkpoints ahead.
Alex Eames wasn't one to pull rank or abuse her position as an officer—but an NYPD Detective was in danger.
Goren and Leslie strolled past the statue of Minerva. They swung left to head deeper into the cemetery.
"You were in CID," Leslie said.
"Yeah. For a time," Goren answered.
"You were slated to go to Quantico. You were a protégé of Declan Gage. But you're not the senior partner," Leslie went on.
Bobby nodded stiffly. It was obvious he was taken aback by her knowledge of his employment history.
"Forgive me, Detective. I dug into your past. I had to do my research to know if I could trust you before I turned over the evidence against Marty Palin and Mr Schorr."
Bobby's discomfort faded, replaced instead by respect.
"Smart," he said.
"Well, I didn't get my degree from Yale just for my sparkling personality," Leslie teased.
Leslie stopped and turned to face Bobby. She crossed her arms and cocked her head to the side as she studied his expression.
"Why Major Case? Why NYPD at all?" she asked.
Bobby wasn't quite sure how to answer.
"I'm sorry I've put you on the spot," Leslie said. "I just, you're… well—"
She flashed him a shy smile.
"Not what I would have expected from an NYPD Detective. You strike me as more… intellectual," Leslie said.
Bobby laughed.
"Well, erm… that's a nice way of putting it I suppose," he replied.
It was certainly more diplomatic than what he usually got.
Suddenly, Leslie's face dropped.
"It must be isolating," she remarked in a way that indicated she knew the feeling all too well.
"Yeah. It can be," Bobby agreed.
He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets to keep them warm. Goren rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.
"But you know all about that, don't you? Working for a guy like Marty Palin. He seems indecisive, lacking confidence. I can't imagine what he's like as a supervisor," Bobby said.
It wasn't a line. Goren sympathised with her position.
He knew how it felt—being the smartest one in the room, having to code switch to fit or scale back his vocabulary. Bobby always had to stop and explain things to people. It interrupted his process.
Not everyone. A little voice reminded him.
Bobby never had to stop and double back or repeat himself with Eames. She instinctively knew where he was headed during an investigation. They communicated without words.
"You do it because you love it, don't you?" Leslie asked.
"I suppose," Bobby answered.
He lived for the puzzle, for the thrill of unravelling a mystery.
"But it's more than that," Leslie said.
She stepped close, poking his chest with her finger.
"You have a sense of duty. A desire to make the world a better place. It's what calls people like us to public service," Leslie said.
She flashed Bobby a knowing smile.
He should have recognised the signs—the classic 'charm and disarm,' her superficial efforts to portray herself as a person of outstanding integrity, and her attempt to lure sympathy by drawing attention to their intellectual similarities.
She played Bobby Goren like a violin the way she manipulated his insecurities with the same skill as the likes of Nichole Wallace.
Bobby should have seen it.
But he was already isolated from his North Star long before Leslie Le Zard sunk her teeth into him.
Suddenly, Leslie clutched her abdomen.
"Sorry, I haven't eaten all day. I know a great place. It's not far. Would you want to…?"
She trailed off, backing away as she pointed over her shoulder.
Bobby grinned. He didn't buy a new suit for nothing.
"Lead on," he replied.
FDA New York Office | Brooklyn
Eames was relieved to see the lights were still on at the FDA Headquarters. She glanced overhead and counted the rows of windows.
Ninth floor.
The lights were still on in the section of the building where Palin and Le Zard worked. Eames recalled that Le Zard's phone records showed that she often worked late into the evening.
The front door was locked.
Eames buzzed building security. It took nearly twenty minutes for someone to come down. After verifying Eames's identity, a squat security guard explained he wasn't authorised to allow anyone in after hours.
"Police," Eames insisted.
"Look, lady. Unless you've got a warrant, I've got orders," the guard shot back.
"You are obstructing an investigation!"
The guard shrugged, repeating the same answer as before.
Alex was about to give up when she spied one of the administrative assistants coming out of the lift.
"Stacey?"
"Detective."
Stacey, the assistant, was surprised to see Eames so late.
"I'm sorry, Mr Palin went home hours ago," she said.
Eames glanced overhead at the windows again—observing that the lights in that section were now off.
"Miss Le Zard?"
"She usually works until 9:01. Like clockwork," Stacey added with a wry smile. "The executives get to use a car service if they stay past nine. Leslie does email until 9:01 every night."
Eames frowned.
"But not tonight?" she asked.
Stacey shook her head.
"No. She said she had to leave early for a meeting. But honestly, it looked like she had a date. She keeps a little black dress in her office and changed after lunch. She spent at least forty minutes preening," Stacey added, scrunching up her nose in disapproval.
Eames took note of Stacey's attitude.
"You don't get along with Miss Le Zard?" she inquired.
"If I'm a minute late back from lunch, she fills out a report. But I don't even know what she does during the day," Stacey shared.
Stacey leaned in close and dropped her voice to a whisper.
"Car service. Meal vouchers. She practically writes off everything for reimbursement. Mr Palin is just too reliant on her to put a stop to it."
Eames nodded slowly as she absorbed this information. It couldn't be further from the portrait Le Zard had presented to Bobby.
Shades of Nichole Wallace.
"Do you know where she was headed tonight?"
Stacey shook her head.
"No, sorry."
Provincia Romana | Williamsburg | Brooklyn
Bobby had to check his reaction when the waiter handed him the wine list.
He reminded himself that he wouldn't be in Major Case long. Bobby could afford to splurge tonight.
A little.
Miss Le Zard ordered with confidence. She didn't need to see a menu—she knew the name of the waiter and the chef.
"I take it you frequent this place often," Bobby observed.
"Please don't get the wrong impression. I discovered this place in relation to an investigation. The owner was very cooperative," Leslie replied.
She paused and took a leisurely sip of her wine.
"But I suppose you meet all types in Major Case. Blowing the case wide open on those secret prisoners at Brooklyn Fed. Taking down that corrupt Harold Garrett. Virginia Harrigton's saviour," Leslie said, rattling off Bobby's accomplishments.
Goren couldn't help but smile.
"Don't be shy," Leslie said.
"I'm just… I'm not used to people looking at things that way. Most of the time when folks know me by reputation only, it's less than savoury," Bobby confessed.
Leslie sat back in her chair and ran her eyes over Detective Goren.
"Alright. So, you're a bit of a rogue. It just adds to your charm," she remarked, raising her glass to Bobby.
She smirked over the rim of her glass. Under the table, Bobby could swear he felt Leslie's foot caress his leg.
Bobby's initial reaction was surprise. It had been ages since anyone had taken a second look in his direction aside from Nichole Wallace and her quasi-obsessive flirting.
Bobby knew it wasn't real. Nichole was incapable of love. She was just infatuated by the idea of one-upping her rival and wielded her sexuality as a weapon to protect herself.
Smart, capable, emotionally stable women didn't look at men like Robert Goren.
Except for Eames.
Bobby didn't need a new suit or a fancy title to impress Alex. She could care less about the contents of his wallet or whatever prestige he brought to the table.
For a moment, Bobby's mind slipped back to the last night they spent together at his flat.
I like what we are. I like what we have.
It's comfortable
People undervalue comfortable.
Bobby shivered as he felt Leslie's hand on his thigh.
"You're lost in thought," Leslie said.
Bobby apologised—which Leslie was quick to dismiss.
"Don't apologise, I'm sure you have a lot going on in that brilliant mind of yours."
Bobby was at a loss for words. There weren't many people that could leave Goren tongue-tied.
"Detective, I wanted to ask. About Jim Kettle…"
Leslie trailed off and visibly grimaced. She dropped her gaze to her lap.
"If… if he was murdered and if Marty and Mr Schorr are trying to—"
Leslie whimpered. She took a shaky breath and started to fan her face.
"I live alone. Just like Kettle. I don't have any family around here. I don't… I don't want to be lying dead for days with no one taking notice," Leslie said.
She reached for Bobby's hand, covering it with her own.
"Jim Kettle had me. I had his back, and he had mine. But now he's gone."
She locked eyes with Bobby. Her face was full of worry.
"Am I next?"
Brooklyn Heights | Brooklyn
Eames circled the surrounding area. She spied Bobby's car parked on a nearby street before she found a spot of her own.
From the outside, Eames could see the lights were off inside Bobby's flat.
She tried calling one last time on the way up.
Eames still had a key to Goren's flat. She didn't want to invade his privacy—but she figured he would thank her if Leslie Le Zard was, in fact, the person Eames suspected she was under that Pollyanna façade.
Like Goren, Alex didn't trust the antique lift in his building. She opted to take the stairs instead—nearly climbing them two at a time as she raced up to the fourth floor.
Eames hadn't been so worried about Goren since he'd gone to interrogate Mark Ford Brady alone.
Bobby had taken quite a beating in recent days. He was cagey about how it happened. And Eames knew his guard was down when it came to Leslie Le Zard—Bobby had made that quite obvious.
Eames burst through the door from the stairwell. Her breath hitched.
Alex reached for her sidearm.
There was a body slumped in front of Goren's door. He was facing the door. But even from a distance, Eames could see his greying curls above the collar of his familiar dark wool overcoat.
Alex crept down the corridor. She kept her weapon drawn as she approached the scene.
"Bobby?" she whispered.
The door at the far end led to another stairwell on the opposite side of the building. It sat ajar.
Eames kept her eyes fixated on that point.
"Bobby?"
Alex knelt down next to him and put a hand on his back to check if he was breathing. He groaned.
"Bobby."
She was still watching the door, her gun aimed at that point in case his attacker came back.
"Eames?"
He rolled away from the door. His eyes were red and glazed. There was vomit down the front of his coat and on the carpet outside the door. He was sporting a black eye. Eames frowned as she ran her eyes over his shaking body.
"Frank?"
He managed a wan smile.
"My guardian angel," he wheezed.
Frank collapsed against the floor, breathing hard.
Eames closed her eyes and took a breath to steady her nerves.
Provincia Romana | Williamsburg | Brooklyn
Bobby dabbed the corner of his mouth and then placed his linen napkin down.
"Chef Renise always outdoes himself with the braised oxtail," Leslie said.
"It was excellent," Bobby concurred.
The waiter returned on cue to inquire about dessert.
"We'll take two. And, Maurice? Could you please box them up?" Leslie requested.
Leslie also requested the check.
"Oh no," Bobby said, fishing for his wallet.
"Please, Detective," Leslie insisted.
What Bobby didn't realise was that Leslie often wrote such dinners off as work expenses.
"I've taken so much of your time," Leslie said.
"It's my duty. And I think you're right to be concerned," Bobby added. "Whoever's behind this was willing to kill Jim Kettle. There's no telling what they'll do next."
"Come on," Eames said.
It was easier said than done getting Frank into Bobby's flat.
"He's not home. I already tried."
Frank claimed he'd been knocking for a while.
Alex opened the door with her key—carefully stepping over the contents of Frank's stomach that had graced the doorway.
Frank wasn't quite Bobby's size. But he was still a foot taller than Eames and had at least seventy pounds on her. Shifting all that weight was quite a feat.
After a few false starts, Alex managed to get Frank in the door.
He collapsed in the kitchen. Eames figured it was as good a place as any. At least it wasn't carpeted.
No sooner was on the floor when he tried to get up again.
"I… I should go," he said.
He didn't have the strength to stand.
"Stay there," Eames ordered as she rummaged for a cold compress and an oversized bowl.
"Naw, naw, naw. I… I should really go," Frank repeated.
"Frank, you're in no condition to go anywhere."
Frank was crashing. Eames recognised the signs of withdrawal. She very much doubted Frank could manage getting down the stairs. It also looked like he'd taken quite a beating.
Shades of your brother. She mused.
Once again, Bobby was front and centre in her thoughts. He was out there somewhere. He could be hurt too.
"You're here. I'm sure Bobby will be home soon enough and I'm really sorry about this, Eames," Frank said.
He sounded genuinely distressed. He closed his eyes and grimaced.
"I didn't mean to, Eames. Honest. I didn't know. Geez, do I screw up everything," Frank remarked.
Frank tried to get up again and stumbled into the cupboards.
Eames knelt down next to him. She put a hand on his shoulder and gently forced him back to the floor.
Frank groaned with relief when he felt the cool compress on his forehead. Eames disappeared briefly before she came back with a pillow.
"Here we go," she said, helping Frank into an upright position.
Frank shook his head.
"I gotta… I gotta get out of here," he murmured. "I don't want to screw this up for Bobby."
Eames didn't want to take Frank's coat off. He was shivering from the withdrawal. Nor did she think she could manage it.
"Frank? What happened? Can you tell me where you're hurt? Are you bleeding?" Eames asked.
She felt along his torso to ensure he wasn't bleeding.
"No. No. I'm… I'll be okay," Frank said.
Eames cleaned away the vomit as best as she could. She recognised it was one of Bobby's wool overcoats, probably one that he grew out of and passed on to Frank.
"What are you doing here, Frank?" Eames asked.
Her voice wasn't angry.
Frank relaxed as she cleaned his face with a warm flannel. It reminded him of the way his mother did whenever he'd been sick as a boy.
"I got kicked from the shelter. They caught me using," Frank confessed.
That shelter was all he had. Frank lost his temporary home—and his shot at a flat. Prior to Frank's relapse, the shelter had assisted to get Frank into a flat of his own.
"So, I figured what do I have to lose? I was gonna get a big score and just… just end it all. But then—"
Frank paused. For a moment, Eames feared he was going to spew chunks all over again. He looked awfully green.
Frank swallowed it down and resumed.
"The guy I was gonna buy from said he didn't have enough on him. To… to meet him later," Frank explained.
"And when you came back, they jumped you, huh?" Eames finished for him.
She was familiar with the tactic.
"Took everything I had. The last of my cash. My mum's ring."
A pain looked crossed Frank's face.
"Aw geez. The ring," he whined.
Alex rinsed the flannel under the sink. When she sat back down next to Frank, he caught her hand.
"I wanted Bobby to have it. For you."
Eames froze.
"If he… if he wanted to, you know? Give it to you. If… if you ever—"
Eames just shook her head.
"Frank, your brother is my coworker. Bobby and I work together. That's… that's it," Eames said.
Frank grinned knowingly. It irritated Eames.
"I am not sleeping with your brother," she insisted hotly.
Frank's grin only grew broader.
"I get it. You and Bobby had a spat," he said.
Frank's eyes went wide.
"I really do need to go. I don't want to mess things up for you two. The makeup sex is always the best," Frank added, ribbing Eames.
Alex rolled her eyes.
Frank's jovial attitude vanished. Frank was just as perceptive as his brother. It was part of what made Frank such a great conman when he needed something.
"You really are fighting. It's serious," Frank said.
Frank shuddered as another wave of chills overtook his body.
"Frank, you need a doctor. You're in withdrawal," Eames said.
"I'll be alright."
She chose to ignore Frank's comment. Eames had to stick to business. She couldn't very well leave Frank, not in the condition he was in.
And she still had to find Bobby.
Soho | Manhattan
It would be an understatement to say that Bobby was blown away by Miss Le Zard's home. She had a high-end flat in SoHo.
With a view.
Her bookshelves were lined with classic literature, rare first editions, books on public policy and sociology, and thrilling mysteries. The walls featured modern art. The furniture was top quality.
"You… you can afford to live here? You didn't make this kind of money working at the FDA," Bobby said, hoping to gain insight.
Leslie chuckled.
"I've been very frugal and very fortunate," Leslie replied.
She glanced up her wine rack and then over to Bobby.
"Could you… erm," she trailed off, pointing at a bottle just out of reach.
"Oh. Of course," Goren answered.
Bobby paused as he caught sight of the label. He chuckled nervously.
"This is a 1961 Château Angelus Bordeaux. It's erm… it's eight hundred dollars a bottle," Bobby said.
Leslie smiled as she took the bottle from Bobby's hands.
"It was a gift. One of the perks of being my position," Leslie said. "You should see the stuff Marty Palin gets. It's all wasted on him though. He can't tell the difference between quality wine and a three-buck chuck."
The penthouse flat, the wine, even Leslie's designer clothes didn't add up. Her expensive taste was at odds with portrait of the self-sacrificing public servant Leslie had painted for Detective Goren.
"You're uncomfortable," Leslie observed.
"It's just not what I was expecting," Goren confessed.
Leslie smiled as she poured the wine.
"I wish I had some lavish story to tell you, Detective. Really, I do. But this—" Leslie paused and gestured overhead. "There's not much to tell. My ex was an investment banker. He got the place out in Suffolk County. I got this place."
Leslie handed Bobby a glass of wine. She stepped in close—closer than was professional.
"Do you think I'm safe here, Detective?" she asked.
Bobby's throat went tight. Leslie traced the line of Bobby's tie with her finger.
"I don't have anyone. It's just me. Alone," she said.
Suddenly, Bobby's phone rang. They broke apart as Goren fumbled for his phone. He had a series of missed calls from Eames—and a text.
Call me. It's urgent.
And eventually 'are you okay?'
Bobby watched as the screen lit up with another incoming call from Eames. He hesitated.
"Sorry, it's erm… it's my partner," Bobby said.
"You work too hard," Leslie said.
Bobby glanced up and cocked his head to the side as he studied Leslie's face. He realised she was right.
He did work too hard—staying late, taking calls at home, spending his evenings pouring through case notes.
Bobby silenced his phone.
Leslie's fingers closed around his tie. She pulled him close, nuzzling against his face.
"Detective," she breathed.
She captured his lips. It felt so foreign for Bobby to find himself on the receiving end of attention, of warm affection.
Leslie cupped his face. Her free hand slipped under his jacket. She clutched the seam at the side of Bobby's shirt, wordlessly spurring him on.
Robert Goren had denied himself for too long.
He gave up his career in Army CID and his shot at Quantico to care for his mother. He denied himself a better standard of living to support her and his mooch of a brother.
He'd given his health and his sanity in service to the NYPD.
After the loss of his mother and Mark Ford Brady's paternity bombshell, Bobby had denied himself the one thing in his life that made it worth living, rejecting the only woman that truly loved him.
The only person that truly cared.
Bobby had been deprived for too long. He was starved for attention, aching for release.
Leslie's hand tugged at the hem of his shirt, freeing it from his trousers. She loosened his tie with practised expertise.
They broke apart, panting as they stared at one another. Bobby realised he was standing at the edge of an ethical precipice.
Leslie Le Zard was a witness, a part of an ongoing investigation. She might even be the next target.
"Detective—"
"Bobby," he said, correcting her.
She opened her mouth to speak. He silenced her with an ardent kiss. Leslie's back hit the wall, their wine sat abandoned on the counter. Leslie wrapped her leg around his waist. Bobby's fingers dug into the flesh of her thigh.
"Call me Bobby," he growled against her ear.
Brooklyn Heights | Brooklyn
Frank dropped his spoon and clutched his hand close to stop it from shaking.
"Here," Eames said.
She rose from the chair and moved to sit beside Frank on the sofa. Frank was buried under a blanket. For the moment, his nausea had subsided. Eames had made him some soft scrambled eggs.
Frank's face flushed with embarrassment as Alex spoon-fed him.
"I'll just erm… I'll try again later," Frank said.
"You need to eat something. It will help," she replied gently.
Frank had expected Alex to be angry, to give him a much-needed dose of tough love. Instead, she was patient. Sympathetic.
"You've done this before," Frank said.
She knew just what to do. She'd anticipated Frank's symptoms. He suspected she had cared for someone going through withdrawal enough times not to squick at the ugly reality of it.
"Let me guess, an ex?" Frank asked.
It was enough to earn a snort of laughter.
"I've had plenty of bad exes—none of them junkies. Married liars. That's my speciality," Eames said.
"Bobby's not married."
For a moment, Frank's comment hung in the air.
Alex sighed and put the eggs down. She cleared her throat.
"Look, is there somewhere I can take you, Frank? Do you have anybody?" Eames asked.
She needed to find Goren. It was after midnight and there had still been no word from Bobby. Eames was concerned that he hadn't responded or returned home.
She couldn't leave Frank alone, not when he was going through withdrawal. Frank was in rough shape.
"Is Bobby in trouble?" Frank asked.
Eames spoke slowly and she searched for an answer. She didn't want to scare Frank.
"Well, he erm… he left work earlier to look into a lead and I'm just concerned that he—"
"Don't you always work as a team?" Frank interjected.
Eames hesitated.
"You are fighting," Frank said, catching her out.
Eames was quick to dismiss that assertion. She tried to downplay the situation, but Frank saw right through her excuses.
"He did something to really hurt you," Frank said.
His guesses hit too close to home for Eames's level of comfort.
"My old man," she said, choosing to dangle that information in the hope of luring Frank away from the topic of Bobby.
Frank didn't follow.
Eames dropped her gaze to her lap as she picked at her fingernails.
"You asked why I know what withdrawal looks like. I know because my old man is a drunk," Eames shared.
"And you take care of him," Frank realised.
Eames nodded.
"Yeah. Ever since my mum died," Alex said.
She had never told anyone that—not even Bobby.
"You've been doing it a long time," Frank added.
"Almost thirty years," Alex said.
She'd been thirteen when her mother died. Johnny Eames never remarried. He never went out with anyone. He just slipped into a drunken, lonely existence each night as he chased salvation at the bottom of a bottle.
She figured it was why she had a soft spot for Frank. She knew better than anyone that his addiction was a disease.
"Is that why you and Bobby aren't… well, you know that he's not like me, right? Bobby would never—"
Eames pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration and groaned.
"How many times do I need to say it, Frank? There is nothing between me and your brother. We're… we're just coworkers. That's all. And that is all we'll ever be, okay?"
Eames was irritated. She was frightened. And having to voice aloud that she and Bobby were nothing more than coworkers hurt.
A part of Alex was still grieving from the loss of what they had shared.
Her hand instinctively went to her necklace. She reached for it whenever she needed to ground herself.
Suddenly, Eames heard the lock on the door click. It creaked open.
Bobby blinked in surprise at the sight of them. Frank poked his head out from under his blanket. He offered Bobby a small wave.
"Hi, Bobby," Frank said brightly.
When Bobby left Leslie Le Zard's penthouse flat, he had a new pep in his step. Even the long cab ride back across the river wasn't enough to dim his spirits.
She'd asked him to stay—but that was one line Bobby just wasn't ready to cross.
Sex was one thing, the aftermath was another.
Sure, he enjoyed the post-coital snuggle. They had sipped the rest of the wine in bed. To his surprise, Leslie liked to smoke in bed too.
It had been ages since Bobby had enjoyed a smooth cigarette after a tumble in the sheets.
Eames didn't smoke. Her nose scrunched up in disapproval whenever Bobby lit up—teasing him that it was more about trying to live up to the image of sex and masculinity engrained in their childhood in the 60s rather than any actual need for a fix.
A part of him longed to stay the night with Leslie. It had been a long time since Bobby had fallen asleep cuddled next to a warm body.
Not just any warm body.
Leslie was an intellectual. She was witty. She knew her wine. She had impeccable taste in art. The jazz on the music player was right in line with Bobby's refined taste.
Leslie had urged him to stay.
Bobby had excused himself shortly after midnight. He needed to get home. He would have to shower and change into a new suit in the morning for work. He was still sore from his beating.
Leslie had been considerate when it came to his cracked ribs—a thought that left him more flustered with the way she took charge.
As he rode home in a cab, Bobby rested his head against the glass and replayed the events of the evening.
Bobby promised to check on Leslie in the morning. He also told her to call anytime if needed.
Leslie suggested Bobby drop by the next night. She had tickets for the Philharmonic at Lincoln Centre and invited Bobby along as her date—suggesting they could try a different wine after the show if he was game.
Bobby was so lost in his own world that he didn't notice the departmental SUV parked by his building. He barely took note of the freshly cleaned carpet in front of his door.
Bobby froze as he opened the door to his flat and found Frank on the sofa, obviously in the midst of withdrawal, and Eames seated across from him.
"Hi, Bobby," Frank said brightly.
"What are you doing here?" Goren demanded, ignoring Frank.
"I got kicked out of the shelter, Bobby. I didn't know where else to go," Frank said.
"Shut up, Frank. I'm not talking to you," Goren snapped.
Alex got up from the sofa. She took a breath.
"I erm… I was concerned when you didn't answer," Eames explained as she approached her partner.
She could smell the sex and the wine and the tobacco on him.
"We need to talk about the case," Eames went on.
She dropped her voice and leaned in close.
"She's not the person you think she is, alright?"
Goren laughed.
"Yeah? Uh huh? That's pretty rich," he remarked.
Eames blinked in disbelief.
"She's not from Yonkers. She didn't go to Knox Preparatory Academy or win a scholarship to Yale. Yale has no record of her. Ever," Eames said. "Those marathons she claims to have run? No record there either. Her life is a fabrication."
"What did you spend the whole afternoon digging up dirt on her like some… some jealous—"
"That is not what this is about!"
Frank audibly gasped.
"I knew it!"
"Shut up, Frank."
Eames and Goren spoke at the same time.
"I spoke to her assistant. She said that Leslie is abusing company perks, that she takes advantage of her position, trading favours with businesses in exchange for—"
"You don't think her assistant is just unhappy? Jealous because she's stuck working as an assistant while Leslie's career advances," Bobby countered.
Eames put up her hands.
"You know, I can't believe you. You don't see any of this as problematic?"
Bobby just shook his head.
"She's worried she could be the next target," he said.
"So, that's why you're out with her until after midnight? The cologne? The new suit?" Eames argued, eyeing his new threads.
Eames frowned.
"Bobby," she said.
Her disappointment was obvious.
"Don't… just don't," Goren warned.
He moved past Eames and hung his coat in the closet behind the door. He couldn't bear to meet her eyes.
"I didn't say a word when you went to that benefit with Terry. Or when you slept with that idiot from Narcotics—and don't tell me you didn't, because I know, Eames," Bobby spat.
"This is not about that!" Eames snipped.
Bobby whipped around and stared down at her. He towered over Eames as if threatening her to just try and push the issue.
"I know you're angry with me. But it's really below you to take that out on Leslie," Bobby said.
Eames's eyebrows shot up.
"She's a part of an active investigation, Bobby," Eames reminded him. "Sleeping with a witness? Possibly a suspect? That's an ethical line, Bobby. A big fat one."
"Well, you and I have a lot of experience in that department," he threw back. "And who says I slept with her? You can't assume that based on—"
"Detective."
Eames could smell it on him. His hair was ruffled. His shirt was unkempt. There were marks visible on his neck where Leslie had been a bit overenthusiastic.
Alex crossed her arms and quirked her head to the side, waiting for Bobby to respond.
"You're not the sex police anymore, you know?" Bobby said.
"What were you thinking? What if she is involved and it… it could come out at trial and—"
"It's not like we broke the law! She's a consenting adult," Bobby said.
"And what… twenty years younger than you?" Eames scoffed.
"Yeeesh," Frank remarked.
He'd been watching the argument with great interest, tucked safely under his blanket on the sofa.
Frank made a face, shaking his head in disappointment at his brother.
"Bobby—"
"Oh, shut up! You're going to judge me? That's rich coming from you, Frank," Bobby snapped.
It was bad enough arguing—it was worse doing so in front of an audience.
"She's playing you, Bobby. She could be dangerous," Eames said.
Bobby laughed.
"She's educated. Sophisticated. Maybe a hundred and fifteen pounds soaking wet. I'm not in danger," he said, dismissing Eames's suspicion. "And she's the whistleblower! She's been nothing but helpful in this investigation."
"And who does that sound like, huh?" Eames demanded.
Bobby reached into the drawer for an ashtray. He put a cigarette between his lips and fumbled for his lighter, ignoring Eames.
"You have a type, Bobby. Clever, eager... psychopaths," Eames said.
Bobby took a long drag from his cigarette as he stared down at his partner.
"Yeah?"
That was all he said.
"Nichole Wallace. Remember Nelda? How about Beatrice Mailer? The way you made goo-goo eyes I thought—"
Bobby slammed his fist down on the counter. Eames didn't flinch but it made Frank jump.
"Jesus, Bobby," he remarked.
"Shut. Up. Frank," Bobby said through gritted teeth.
He wheeled on Eames.
"I can't believe you. The one time I choose to do something for myself, to pursue something I want, something that makes me happy, and you… you have to scold me for it," Goren fumed. "What am I supposed to do, Eames? Between my mother and my brother and… and my fucking father—"
Bobby paused.
He was broken. Bobby felt utterly shattered.
"When do I get to be happy? Why can't I just have a taste of that for a change? Just… just for once?" he pleaded.
Alex's lip began to quiver.
"And you didn't have that before, Bobby? You didn't… you… you didn't have that?" Eames asked.
Bobby realised he'd done it again—stuck his size thirteen foot right in his mouth.
"What do you want me to say, huh?" he roared in Eames's face.
She bit her lip and willed herself not to break down. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing just how torn up she felt inside.
Could he really reduce what they shared to nothing? Was he not happy?
Was that why he'd cut Eames off after she confessed that she loved him?
"What, are you gonna cry?" Bobby asked.
"Hey! Back off, Bobby," Frank said, stepping in.
"Sit down and shut up!"
He started to march into the sitting room. Eames feared he would punch out his brother. She stepped in front of Goren and put her hand on his chest.
"Bobby, please," Eames said in a calm voice.
Bobby's temper flared.
"Don't take his side!"
He turned and smacked the ashtray off the counter.
"DON'T TAKE HIS SIDE!"
Alex remained cool in the face of his outburst.
"Look, I'm just going to get my coat, and I'll go. Okay?" Eames said.
She was trying to diffuse the situation. She didn't want to set Bobby off—especially with Frank there.
"Are you going to take care of him?" Eames asked softly.
A part of her feared Bobby would kick Frank to the curb. Frank was in no condition to be out on the streets.
"Of course, I'm going to take care of him. He's a fucking junkie, Eames. He's my responsibility. Because I don't get to have nice things or fun or a fucking life," Goren shouted.
"Right," Eames said dryly. "Sorry to have been such an inconvenience to you, Detective."
Eames moved to go. Bobby's arm shot out to stop her.
"Eames—"
"No, no. I get it."
In a fit of rage, Bobby reached for the telephone and threw it across the room. It hit the wall and shattered. Bobby wheeled and closed in on Eames, using every ounce of his size to try and frighten his partner.
"Why did you have to go and spoil it all?" Bobby fumed.
Eames stared at her partner in disbelief.
"HUH?" Bobby shouted.
Alex flinched. She instinctively put her hand up to stop him—the same move she used whenever an interrogation got too intense.
And Bobby saw it. Fear flashed in her eyes. For a moment, Alex Eames truly thought that Robert Goren was going to hurt her, that he would turn his anger on her.
She's afraid of me.
Bobby was gutted.
It was confirmation of his greatest fear. He was no different than William Goren, chasing a fix while he had a dependable, loving wife at home. He was no better than Mark Ford Brady—intimidating, menacing.
It was all true. Bobby could snap at any moment. He could hurt Eames. His eyes fell on the spot where the ashtray had been. Bobby had beaten his fist on that counter many times. There was still a hole in the wall from his last blow-up. His dining set was a chair short courtesy of Bobby's temper.
Who was say he would not one day snap and turn on Eames?
His unflappable, unbreakable partner was just as fragile as that ashtray.
All it took was one thing to set Bobby off.
Bobby realised that he could never salvage the relationship he had once shared with his partner. Everything from that point forward was about harm reduction.
He had to cut the dead weight. Eames would never let go unless he pushed away her once and for all.
Bobby chose his targets like a butcher selecting where to make the best cuts. He had to maximise his damage with as little effort as possible, he couldn't afford to give her a chance to push back.
"You want to lecture me about my bad taste in women but… but you?" Bobby went on. "I thought you were pretty smart. But it's no wonder you can't find anyone."
Alex blanched.
"I thought I had," Alex said softly.
"Oh, please! You think women like Leslie use me? You're the worst of them all," Bobby said. "The only reason you came onto me is because you know I'm… well, I'm me. Aren't I? Unstable. Hopelessly available. Desperate enough that I don't care about the fact you're still in love with your dead husband, that—"
Bobby face darkened.
"That you're not thinking about me. When you come over here and spread your legs, you're thinking about him."
Bobby wondered. He wondered every time.
"You know I won't say no. That you wield all the power in that bed. And that there's not a damn thing I can do about it because how the hell am I supposed to compete with a ghost?" Bobby snarled.
Eames nodded slowly. Her hands trembled.
"I didn't know you felt that way. I'm sorry," Eames said in an uncharacteristically small voice. "I… wish you had said something sooner."
Like before I said, 'I love you.' Eames thought bitterly.
All trace of her self-assured, indomitable spirit evaporated under Bobby's scornful glare.
"I'm going to talk to Captain Ross. I should have taken up his offer to take some time off, you know? There's been a lot of stress with the case and—"
"Don't bother. I'm not staying in Major Case," Bobby announced.
The news hit Eames harder than any of Bobby's verbal blows. She was stunned.
"You're… you're leaving? Bobby?" she asked, desperate to understand why.
"We both know I've been holding you back. I'm dead weight," he said. "And you know what? If you want to punish yourself because you can't move on from Joe—find another schmuck to ride. I'm done with Major Case. With the NYPD. I've been wasting my talent for too long."
Bobby gave Eames the perfect chance to dunk on him. He set it up for her take the baton, to launch into a replay of all the things he'd done to hurt her.
Instead, Alex looked shaken. Her voice cracked as she spoke.
"Well, wherever you go—they'll be lucky to have you," Eames said in earnest.
Bobby grimaced.
"C'mon, Eames. Get angry," Bobby pleaded.
He was disturbed that Eames didn't lash out.
"I know you think you deserve... and you probably do. But—"
Her shoulders shook as she took a slow breath. Eames gave Bobby a hard look.
"You should resent me," Bobby said.
"Why do you push people away?" Eames asked. "It's me, Bobby. I'm your partner."
"Was. I was your partner," Bobby said, correcting her.
Bobby shifted his weight. He couldn't bear her silence.
"C'mon!" he roared. "You should hate me. That would be the appropriate emotional response, Detective. Call me a jackass. Storm out. Throw a brick through my rear windshield. C'mon, Eames!"
She glanced up and met Bobby's gaze.
"You want to push me away. Is that what you really want?" Eames whispered.
Bobby's resolve faltered.
She was giving him an opportunity to walk it back, to come clean and confess that his anger was really rooted in trauma.
She was offering him grace.
Salvation.
Alexandra Eames—Bobby's personal Madonna.
Our Lady of Perpetual Strength. The purpose of joy. Mother of Mercy. Queen of the well-timed one-liner.
Salvation in sensible heels.
Bobby didn't know where to start. His pride lay shattered at her feet.
"Eames—"
A loud crash ruined the moment. Frank had stumbled into the loo and lost his footing.
"Dammit," Bobby cursed.
He flashed Eames an apologetic look.
"I have to—"
She responded by putting her hands up. She understood that Frank's safety was the priority.
"Go," Eames urged.
Frank was lying on the floor in the bathroom. He was sweating and shaking. He heard the door open and managed to flash Bobby a hazy smile.
"I… I don't know what happened," Frank said.
Bobby sighed. He slipped his arm around Frank and helped him back to his feet.
"Let's get you to the couch," Bobby said.
Slowly, he managed to guide Frank out. Frank leaned heavily on his brother as they made their way back to the main room.
Eames was gone.
She'd left her spare key on the counter.
Bobby and Frank collapsed onto the sofa together. The two brothers sat in silence, licking their collective wounds. Broken. Bruised. Alone. Nowhere to turn but one another. It felt oddly fitting.
"Bobby, you shouldn't have said those things. I know you were just trying to hurt her," Frank said.
"Shut up, Frank."
That night, Bobby crawled into bed alone. He was still struggling with the wild emotional swing of the last few hours. He'd gone from feeling so alive to utter devastation all in one night.
Bobby threw his suit on the floor. He couldn't bear to look at it.
He reached into the top drawer of his dresser and froze, catching sight of the grey t-shirt Eames had left one morning.
Bobby climbed into bed and pulled the shirt close. Goren curled up under the sheets. He buried his face into the shirt and wept.
The next morning, Bobby was up later than usual.
Frank was still on the sofa and still in withdrawal—but considerably better than he had been the night before.
Bobby said nothing as he handed Frank a plate of toast.
"What's this for?" Frank asked.
"Just—"
Bobby stopped himself. He had to keep his temper in check.
"Just eat it, okay? You need to eat something," Goren said.
"Look, thanks for letting me stay last night. When do you go to work? I'll… I'll just get my things and—"
"Sit down, Frank," Bobby ordered.
Frank ignored him. He stumbled, looking around for his pants and socks as he tried to get dressed.
"Sit. Down."
It was said in such a cold voice that Frank complied.
"I don't want to be a burden," Frank said.
"You're not… just, just listen, okay?"
Bobby shifted in his seat. He tugged at his collar.
"You're going to stay here until you get on your feet. I'm going to make a call. I'm going to try and get you into a programme," Bobby said.
He figured it was the least he could do. There would be more money in consulting. He could afford to help Frank.
And, in some ways, Bobby considered that he needed to help Frank. Because if he could save his ne'er do well brother, then maybe—just maybe—Robert Goren could find salvation himself.
"Bobby, are you doing this for me? Or for you?" Frank asked. "Please don't think I'm ungrateful… I just—"
Bobby ignored the question.
"There's food," Bobby said, gesturing to the kitchen. "You know where everything is. Don't burn the place down, alright?"
Eames wasn't present when Goren got in. That wasn't uncommon—Bobby typically beat her to work in the morning.
But she didn't arrive by 9:00, Bobby was concerned that she really had taken leave. There was a real possibility Eames had coordinated her leave so that Bobby would be gone from Major Case before she returned.
For the best.
Before he could dwell on that, Goren got a text message. He eagerly flipped open his phone in the hope that it was from Eames. He might be running late or chasing down a lead.
Instead, it was from Leslie. She wanted to know if they were still on for Lincoln Centre.
He shot a quick message back to confirm. Goren also realised that he had missed a text from Eames on his way into work.
Case file is on your desk. Please look over.
Goren spied the manilla folder with disdain. He had no desire to rehash her assumptions about Leslie.
Instead, Bobby booted up his computer.
He was still firmly under the belief that Jim Schorr, the CEO of Schorr Labs, had to be the one behind it. Schorr had power, influence, and motive.
The chain of evidence in the whistleblower emails pointed to Marty Palin. But Palin was inept. Bobby seriously doubted that Palin had the wherewithal to coordinate such a sophisticated crime.
Palin was just a cog. Someone else had to be pulling the strings.
Likely Schorr.
Mike Logan sat down on the edge of Bobby's desk.
"Sorry about the kid. It's awful," Logan remarked.
"What kid?" Goren asked.
Logan tilted his head back and shook out the last of his bag of candy into his mouth.
"Your vic's little sister," Logan said.
He assumed Goren was in the know.
"What?" Bobby raged.
"Your victim. That kid. His little sister came in overnight. Geez, Goren. I… I thought you knew. I'm sorry," Logan said.
Goren didn't hang around. He rushed down to Rogers's lab in search of answers.
"The Grandmother's been watching her since her mother went to Bellevue," Rogers explained. "She found Toby's stash of SnoMint. Grandma didn't realise she'd drank any until it was too late."
Bobby stared down at the tiny body of young Miss Borden.
Just days earlier, Bobby and Alex had managed to talk down her mother before the family was struck by a second tragedy. They'd averted a horrific murder-suicide and saved this child.
Now she was dead.
It felt so unfair.
This child should have been alive. She never should have succumbed to this fate.
"But… but there was a recall?"
Goren struggled for an answer.
"You know a recall depends on the public identifying and throwing the tainted product away. And on the recall information being disseminated quickly and clearly. I've got calls out to three hospitals with more people—most of them children—that had no idea about the recall," Rogers said.
Her face darkened as she stared at the little girl.
"I wouldn't be surprised if there's more to follow. The recall barely got a minute of time on the local evening news. It was tacked on at the end of the broadcast," Rogers said.
She shook her head with dismay.
"I've sent word out to every hospital, city paramedics, paediatricians—urging all of them not to dismiss these symptoms," Rogers said.
In most cases, the children that drank the tainted SnoMint could have been saved if only their symptoms had been caught and treated earlier instead of being dismissed as allergies or the flu.
In Rogers's opinion, the SnoMint incident was now a public health crisis.
"Find who did this," Rogers urged.
Bobby didn't think there was anything that could make him feel worse that morning. But the sight of young Miss Borden's body on that cold slab in the basement brought him to a dark place.
Goren was wrecked by the time he got back up to the Major Case squad room. He arrived just as Detectives Eames was on her way back from a fresh crime scene.
"I thought you were supposed to be on leave?" Goren asked.
"Erm… there's two more children in ICU at North General. And I checked with New York Presbyterian. A rep is gonna ring me back. Early count, they think they've got twenty-four people that fit the symptomology," Eames said.
Bobby was hunched over his desk. He kept his attention fixated on the pen in his hand.
"Do you want to work this case together? Or by yourself? I mean… when were you planning to tell me about Toby's little sister?"
He sat back in his chair and waited for an answer.
Eames tried to keep her cool, but Goren could see she was rattled.
"I wasn't sure what time you were coming in which is why I left the file on your desk," Eames said.
She'd sent a text. She wasn't hiding anything from him.
"You had time to talk to Logan," Bobby pointed out.
Eames baulked.
She glanced around to ensure they weren't being watched and then dropped her voice low.
"You took off for hours yesterday without so much as a word! I'm not the one responsible, Bobby. You shut yourself out of this investigation," Eames whispered angrily.
Captain Ross poked his head out the door and summoned the pair into his office. He wanted an update on the case.
"This phoney SnoMint situation has escalated," Ross said. "Where are you on this case?"
He wasn't angry. In fact, Ross promised them the full resources of the NYPD.
"I've got a meeting with the Chief of D's in an hour. I'm going to ask him for a task force. Detective Eames, as senior partner, you'll head it," Ross said.
So much for time off.
Alex couldn't step away now. And Bobby certainly didn't feel right about giving notice. He would need to stay and see the case through. He couldn't live with the thought of another child's death on his conscience.
"Anything come of these emails?" Ross pressed.
"Marty Palin knew about the tainted SnoMint. He knew Jim Kettle was planning to go public," Bobby said.
"Good. Then arrest Palin. What are we waiting on?" Ross inquired.
Bobby sighed and shifted in his chair.
"It's not that simple. Palin is easily distracted. He can't even manage his own office. There's a puppet master. Somebody that's directing Palin. It's gotta be Schorr," Goren said.
Eames bit her tongue. She didn't like to contradict her partner in front of the Captain.
"You don't agree," Ross said, his eyes falling to Eames's chair.
Eames replied slowly.
"I think that we should take a look at everyone—including his assistant Miss Le Zard," Eames answered.
Goren scoffed and shook his head.
"Leslie didn't do this," he muttered.
"She lied about Yale," Eames shot back.
"Oh, like she's the first person to pad her background," Goren remarked. "Her ex was an investment banker with a house in Suffolk county. She probably wanted to fit in. You, of all people, should have some sympathy for her position."
Eames visibly bristled but remained silent.
The tension between the pair was palpable.
"Do I need to reassign this case?" Ross asked. "I'm going upstairs in an hour. If I need to reassign it, I'd like to know before I ask the Chief for the resources to put together a task force."
The room fell silent. Ross softened his tone.
"You two are already up to speed on this case. You've built a rapport with the folks at Schorr Labs and the FDA. I don't want to lose ground by reassigning this," Ross said.
Goren answered on behalf of the duo.
"Schorr is behind this. I'll prove it, Captain," Goren declared.
Bobby glanced over at his partner.
"I'll prove it," he promised.
Eames and Goren worked at their desks as they waited for Captain Ross to finish his meeting with the Chief of D's.
"That comment about Suffolk County, that was about Joe's parents, wasn't it?" Eames asked.
"Should I have made it more obvious for you?" Goren replied.
Alex nodded slowly as she took a breath.
"You promised me you weren't going to look through those letters from Delgado."
Eames was hurt. It felt like a betrayal.
"I didn't read the letters," Bobby replied honestly.
He'd kept his word. He hadn't touched the letters.
"Whatever," Eames said, waving it off.
She caught sight of Captain Ross as he strolled back in from his meeting. Ross flashed Eames a thumbs up.
"Well, it looks like your task force is a go," Bobby said.
Eames nodded.
Bobby stopped twirling his pen in his hand. He leaned over his desk.
"Could I erm… could I ask permission to work on my own? I'll keep you in the loop," he added.
Goren didn't play well with others. Things were already terse.
"I'd like your permission to… pursue my own leads," Goren explained.
Eames wasn't going to argue the point. Bobby would just be in the way.
"Sure. Go."
While Eames assembled her task force and held a preliminary meeting, Bobby checked in with the FDA.
He rang Leslie from his desk.
"It's just… there's a lot of new victims. Our ME thinks there could be more in the coming days," Bobby said.
"I wish I could do more. Marty's already moved on. He's putting out a press release later today with Jim Schorr. Schorr labs is hosting a charity benefit for the families," Leslie said.
"When?" Bobby asked.
"Monday night. I could get you in," Leslie offered.
"Yeah. That would be great," Bobby replied.
"Should I add your partner to the guest list as well?" Leslie inquired.
Bobby glanced over at the meeting room. Through the glass, he could see Eames leading the discussion as she filled the rest of the task force in on the details of the case.
"Erm… no. Just me."
Leslie was disappointed.
"Then you won't be arresting Marty? Or Mr Schorr?" she asked. "What's taking so long, Bobby? People are dying."
"Well, we're not sure Marty Palin is responsible. He might be negligent, but I don't think he orchestrated this. And we still need to find the source of the tainted product," Goren said.
"It's Schorr. It has to be," Leslie urged.
"You're probably right. But we don't have any evidence to implicate him and… well, my partner isn't entirely convinced that Schorr is behind it," Goren shared.
Bobby's hunch simply wasn't enough to hold a man like Schorr without solid evidence. Schorr would have an army of lawyers at his back. He'd make bail before noon.
"Then if it's not Schorr—"
"I can't really disclose information about the investigation. I'll see you tonight," Goren said.
"Bobby, wait," Leslie pleaded.
She dropped her voice.
"It's me. Please. I could be in danger," Leslie whispered.
"I think you're safe at your office. I'll… I'll swing by and pick you up tonight," Bobby said.
There was security at the office. Leslie was surrounded by people. It was unlikely Schorr would try anything in such a public setting.
"Just don't go out alone, okay? Wait until I get there."
At 4:15, Eames returned to 1PP. She'd spent the afternoon in Harlem meeting with the local precinct. NYPD was canvassing neighbourhoods. They had flooded the streets with officers to hit every shop, bodega, or chemist for the tainted product. They were holding community meetings in fourteen languages to try and ensure the public were aware of the danger.
Eames was so focused on her work that she hadn't had time yet to check in with Goren yet.
He was just throwing on his overcoat to leave for the day. Eames ran her eyes over his suit, noting that he'd changed into a much nicer suit, one that he kept hanging in the department locker whenever he had to appear in court.
"Any new information to report?" Eames asked.
"I've just been looking into Schorr's financials."
That wasn't a line—Goren had spent the afternoon going over Schorr's financial records with a fine-tooth comb.
"Alright," Eames said.
She didn't say another word. She just pulled out the chair at her desk and dove in to catch up on email. She had at least two hundred new messages since the NYPD had announced the task force.
Bobby paused. He stood motionless beside his desk as he waited for Eames to say something—anything.
She noticed Goren hovering and glanced up from her keyboard.
"Was there something else on Schorr?" she prompted.
"Erm… no. Nope," Bobby said.
He fell silent. Eames gestured, wordlessly urging him to get on with it.
"I have plans," he said. "I'm… I'm going to Lincoln Centre."
"Have fun," Eames replied before turning back to her work.
Somehow, being on the receiving end of her nonchalance felt even worse than the anger.
"Right." Bobby knocked on the edge of the desk and lumbered out of 1PP.
FDA New York Office | Brooklyn
Bobby arrived just as Leslie was coming out of a meeting with Marty Palin.
And Schorr.
"Detective!" Marty said brightly. "What can I help you with?"
"Just some follow-up," Goren answered.
Bobby was vague. He wasn't sure Leslie wanted anyone to know about their relationship.
"Oh, anything we can do. Anything at all," Palin said. "Did you hear those kids are gonna be okay?"
Schorr was less enthusiastic.
"Don't you people coordinate? I spent three hours this afternoon in a meeting with your partner. Head of this new task force," Schorr said.
"And that makes you upset, Mr Schorr? Do you think that's a waste of time?" Bobby pressed.
Schorr frowned.
"You don't understand at all. I wouldn't have killed Jim Kettle. I would have put him in charge of Quality Control," Schorr said.
On their way out of the building, Leslie could tell there was something weighing on Bobby's mind.
"You're not stuck on what Schorr said, are you?" she asked.
Bobby shrugged.
"Well, Schorr has a point. His brand, his reputation, it's all he has. The tainted product was sophisticated. Targeted. Schorr may have had motive to kill Kettle, but not to taint the product in the first place," Goren theorised aloud. "And it's just that—"
Bobby paused.
The more Goren looked into it, the more he realised Kettle wasn't killed to cover up the tainted product. Kettle was killed to keep the tainted product in the field, to maximise the damage.
"What is it?" Leslie asked.
Bobby turned to Leslie.
"Is there anyone that might have wanted to hurt Schorr? Does he have any enemies?" Bobby asked.
Leslie was stunned.
"Erm… I don't know. He and Marty go way back. They were frat brothers," Leslie said, drawing his attention back to Marty.
"Forget about Marty for a minute. He… he couldn't have done this. This took planning. Coordination. Palin doesn't have those skills," Goren said.
Leslie reached for Bobby's hand.
"Unless he's playing us. Maybe he's smarter than he looks?" Leslie suggested. "He could be some great criminal mastermind right under your nose."
She laughed, teasing him.
"Marty Palin. The secret Moriarty of the FDA," Leslie mused.
Bobby laughed too. He brought Leslie's hand to his lips and kissed her fingers.
"We should get going. I think you're going to love the show," she said.
One Police Plaza
Eames downed the last of her coffee. She stared at the bottom of her empty mug for a moment, debating whether or not to get another cup.
She checked the time. It was late—already past seven.
Eames reached for her phone. She flipped through her rolodex until she found the right number.
"Yes. Yes. It's Detective Eames from Major Case."
A Desk Sergeant advised that her contact was likely already gone for the night. Indeed, the phone rang through to his voicemail. Eames left a message.
"I'm wondering if you could help me with a property search in Suffolk County?"
Half an hour later, her cell buzzed with an answer.
It'll take a few days.
Eames threw on her coat. She paused to pull her hair out from under the collar.
"Working late?" Mike Logan asked.
"You too?" Eames replied with a wry smile.
"Just came from Our Lady of Mercy," Logan said.
Eames stuffed her hands in her pockets and nodded in understanding. She'd been advised by Logan earlier that day that the community in Queens had rallied to hold a prayer service for Manny Beltran.
It was just the latest stop on his public press tour. Danielle Melnick's strategy included gaining mass public sympathy for Beltran. He'd been a child at the time, another victim of gang violence.
And he'd devoted his life to anti-violence causes—marching for gun safety, volunteering, counselling victims.
"I heard he's gonna be on the news. An interview on Monday," Logan said, giving her a head's up.
"All in for the fight then, eh?" Alex said.
"Looks that way," Logan answered.
Eames visibly stiffened. She moved to go, but Logan caught her shoulder.
"We're gonna get him," Logan promised.
Alex sniffled. She felt foolish for crying in the middle of the squad room—she just couldn't hold it back anymore.
"I'm sorry," she said softly, thumbing away her tears.
"Don't apologise," Logan replied.
"I just… I feel Manny Beltran has been made into this great community martyr and… and Joe's been lost in all of this. Like nobody cares that… that he's the one that's gone," Alex sobbed.